Wonderland
by Risou
Summary: Forced to go on infinite vacation, Chris finds himself settling in a quiet part of Europe, rethinking about fighting for world peace or starting anew. What he doesn't realize is, everything happens for a reason. Even when he thinks the chocolate pie has been overcooked, it has barely started cooking yet. W/C, AE/AU-ish I think.
1. New Life, New Stalker and New Flamer?

**Disclaimer: I don't own Capcom or Resident Evil.**

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_I don't know how long can this fiction survive under the hands of Fanfiction but I'll keep on going until it gets taken off for violation of the rules they have mentioned. You'll find it in my backup safe stated on my profile if it ever does._

_I ought to give a little warning first: This is going to be a slow series (long chapters, slow updates yeah), and it will definitely cross into the Resident Evil 6 game launch. That is going to distract me for a bit... So yes, the story. It is going to sound a little monotonous and angsty in the beginning but trust me, that is not the direction I am heading for. I'm trying to pick up a light atmospheric style of writing, with a little sense of humor and sarcasm at the same time. Gonna need that pat on the shoulder to keep on going._

_And lastly, if you can't take man on man, then you must have missed my summary._

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**Wonderland**

**by ****Seraph Wes W.**

_**- For the desire to start afresh, know thyself all over again, be honest, understand the past, steer the present, embracing the odds, and touch the future -**_

/

**Date: April 29, 2010 Thursday  
Time: 02:13PM (GMT +3:00)  
Mood: Lethargic, Hungry**

It's a rainy day. The rain outside my window is really… making me lethargic.

The mood option available thing is really good for capturing the current-state-of-mind thing. Now when I look back at my older entries, I realize I'm spending most of my time feeling lethargic or angry.

The fridge is empty and I'm feeling hungry. But instead of doing myself some good by heading over to the nearest convenience store to get some lunch, here I am typing away in this cyberspace again. Months back Claire got me to start penning down my thoughts, thinking it will do me good while I stabilize myself. I remember the temper I'd blown up on her after that, told her I would never do something like that. So she doesn't know I've started this journal thing, but I'm doing it only for the love of her. Haven't actually gotten around to apologize to her yet though, needa get my ass in there and do it somehow.

Then again, is she shitting me, honestly? I haven't felt this normal than I ever was. Just because I'm weary and tired from my duties doesn't exactly make me _mentally unstable_. Yeah, they had those psychiatrists declared me _mentally unstable_ for work. After all I have done for this world, this is the sort of thanksgiving they give to a national hero?

So here I am, put on infinite vacation until they decided it was time for me to go back. Well screw them. I ain't going back, not after all of this.

I'm working on my due-salary and pension with those bastards, can't be having them cheating away all of my hard-earned cash. I bled for them for Christ's sake. I deserve more than the amount they have been cashing me all this time. I put my life on the line goddammit. I don't deserve anything less than this.

I just want my job back.

I want to go back doing what I do best.

Moldova is raining everyday ever since I decided to settle down here. I figure I needed time to be alone and away from everyone I knew. Seems folly when I have just exposed where I am but truth is, nobody knows the existence of this journal. So I'm just typing away, recording bits and pieces of the things I've gone through day after day. At times, I kinda feel stupid and pathetic looking at myself typing a bunch of shit to me. I ain't lacking in my social life but something makes me feel detached from it. Maybe it's the age factor. I'm growing old and I've just lost the one thing I thought I spent my entire life fighting for. My life's been at its worst ever since the organization doubted my creditability. I mean, did they even realize they were questioning one of their very own founding members? I don't know how it'd happened but it sure didn't sound like they were going to believe whatever I was trying to explain. Even Jill and Sheva didn't appear to believe what I said.

Am I the only one who doesn't know what the fuck is going on?

Okay time out. I won't get an answer asking myself. Their decision is final and so is bloody mine. It's about time I get that late lunch.

/

Pulling the hood of a gray fleece coat over his head, Chris exited his tiny apartment after having decided to settle his lunch over cyberspace. He was no big fan of the Internet, but that online journal certainly helped kept his mind from brooding with itself. As the years kicked numbers into his age, he began thinking far too much than he ever did use to. It was not about maturity hitting his pubescent years or some debate knocking at his door, the senior fighter knew exactly who made him start doubting everything that lied before his eyes. A mentor, or to aptly describe his title, a scheming, cunning nonetheless wise captain, taught him the ways of life, that everything happened for a reason and nothing was as simple as it seemed. A life dedicated to finding truth left the man growing up from his innocence, fighting for the world and facing the man who betrayed him for a bloody vile of virus. Loathing the very same betrayal 15 years ago, he still felt the same intense amount of hurt when he thought about it. Naïve, he was stupid to have trusted a monster who would haunt him for the rest of his life. Stupid, for harboring as much feelings for that same man than he ever had for anyone else in his life. Then topping off with regret, he shot that man in the face with a pair of rocket launchers to end their episodic chapter in life for the last time.

Fighting against all that, he ended up here, in Moldova, as a suspect of whatever the B.S.A.A. was suspecting. To hell with this bullshit if that was all the thanks he was going to get for killing the one man who knew him better than this world ever did. How many goddamn years was Jill captured and they did not even begin to suspect her. So what was it on him that led to all these accusations?

He touched the stubble on his chin, grazing the prickly touch as he grasped both center fronts of his coat together, eyes cascading the quiet street of the suburban side. At least life here was easy. Quiet but easy. Slow but easy. He took a rent for one of the bachelor apartments available south of town with the existing savings he never had a chance to use and settled in quickly. There was a small kitchen beyond a tiny counter, a bathroom along the short corridor with the only bedroom at the end of it. A patio extended to the side of his living room where he often spent his quiet nights smoking on. The ready furniture was old but usable, simple but sturdy. Chris quickly grew fond of the backward town as cloudy sky loomed over him, sun hiding behind cloaks of gray, warming the cool atmosphere lightly. People here never questioned more than they needed. If you needed butter, they would tell you it is in isle three and let you be. Back in Portland, the cashier girl would always tell him the different flavors of butter he should try in his culinary, when all he needed butter for was a spread on toast, a condiment on pancakes. Oh but he definitely missed the pancakes, pancakes on a Sunday morning with Claire over at Sally's.

It was the usual routine. About twenty steps he would be right in front of the café bistro where he would purchase his morning coffee, if he wakes up that early. Across that store, he would follow the scent of freshly baked bagels from the bakery two shops away. Chris secretly thanked the heavens to be staying close to such wonderful delicacies; he had been cautious he was addicted to their blueberry bagels that were only available on Tuesdays, particularly only before eight in the morning. Any later they would have been all gone and there goes another week of waiting. For lunch, if he decided to skip the kitchen chores, it was always a ride downtown to a specialty store that served both local and American food. It was tough trying to speak to the other storeowners who only spoke in Romanian or Moldovan, especially when he tried ordering a local dish from their local menu. Chris often thought his tongue was going to roll off on its own if he tried any harder than he had been doing. He had become acquainted with one of the waitresses earliest and his fame gradually spread among the entire crew, so much so that even the chef knew Chris was fond of his _Sarmale_*. However, what made the restaurant best was their weekend menu that served Surf 'n' Turf with meat that reminded him of Colorado steak. For a moment, he would enjoy his weekend as though he was back in States, a nice cold beer accompanied by outdoor grill for the Saturday evening. The only missing element would be the beautiful Portland sea view, but the river view generally does just fine. All in all, that was what made _Simţire_ generally one of the places you would have the senior fighter spending a regular Saturday evening by.

Today, after locking up the apartment, it is decided he would have that forgotten pasta he promised himself two weeks ago when he realized he ran out of cheese at home the other time. Home to some of the finest cheese much to its exquisite brewery, Chris found himself appreciating the art of eating more than he did with the fast food he had back home. However let truth be known that he was no expert in tasting cheese despite the variety, often did he find himself wincing at a Brie as much as he had choked on a piece of lemon. Wine, on the other hand, communicated with him just fine. It felt closer to the sibling of beer while Brie was the long-forgotten distant relative of Mozzarella. He also found a distinct liking for one of the rare wines still available in state, _Plavai_** it was. Thank Yurkov the Russian chef of _Simţire _for that, the latter found love for the crispy white wine and introduced its charming flavor to the fighter. The chef never fails at surprising Chris with his new creations, discoveries and wittiness but to speak of his true attempts, it would be his public displays of affection towards the man. They led the senior fighter in one too many occasions having thoughts if he was serious about courting him. It was funny however, the attempts Yurkov drew, had often brought an occasional smile to Chris' face unknowingly. Even amusingly so, such subtle experiences comforted his present state of loneliness. As he lost old friends, he gained new ones. Losing his job had some fair trades in his life it seemed, and the aged man was determined to make up for lost years in the luxury department.

So the first thing he filled in his list of luxuries was his recent purchase of a 2007 Wrangler. Mint condition, low mileage and the sleek black car paint were worth every penny for a secondhand purchase. Although his primary intention was to reinstate his classic 1996 jeep, the antique sellers were ripping the price off even with its exhausted mileage. Besides, Yurkov was the one who got him a deal too good to be true; he could hardly resist his goodwill and the savings in his wallet. The Russian has his fair share of communal involvement it appears; it was only about a month ago when Chris found out his celebrity status throughout town that he had slowly begun to regret being involved with the man. Not that the latter already has secret admirers showing hostility to him, one can never be too sure if he might be caught up in some complication that he has no desire to be in. With all the ambiguity building, Chris only wished for a quiet piece of heaven. And that heaven rests in the distant woods due north of his stay, some gentle mountain climbing and camping sites allocated for the civilians, where a quiet lake slumbers. This is where his Wrangler plays an important role in his life in Moldova, apart from Chris' undying love for jeeps. He made a promise to himself to take time to explore the outskirts of town, seeking solace in nature for his aging heart. As he ignited the engine in his seat, he blankly stared at the steering wheel while feeling age taking its toll on him. Alone in the driver's seat, he stared at the empty passenger seat to his right, recalling the times he drove his friends back home from a baseball game, a drinking session or even a late-night movie. Friends naturally included his captain, who later became his lover-turned-foe. How times have changed since then, the events happening over the last decade molding the senior fighter into who is now. Trust weakened and faiths destroyed, even the closest of comrades were perhaps, a façade. But since dwelling over history would seem too heavy for a perfect day to waste, Chris thus punched into the accelerator heading for the nearest supermarket to gather his shopping lists.

In the green trolley sat a dozen of eggs, two cartons of milk, two jars of pasta sauce, three packets of linguine, microwaveable pizza, a loaf of bread, a slab of butter and the misfit, six-pack beer. The thunder roared into the store from the rain, causing some kids to shout and cry from the sudden shudder. The rain had barely subsided; in fact, it felt like it had only gotten worse than before. Staring at the columns of instant coffee, Chris regretted coming out in the rain to run his shopping. Couldn't he have picked another day or another time during the day to do it? Then he felt the rumbling in his stomach and remembered the commitment he made to the pasta he promised in his mind, which brought him to another thing, energy bars. If he wants to avoid last minute shopping like the one he is doing right now, he needs to make sure he has a museum full of energy bars, like every single flavor or label or types of energy bars stocked up in his apartment so back up supplement is always ready for consumption. Grabbing two packets of the instant latte mix, he left the beverage isle with some bottles of mineral water before hunting for the energy bars, keeping in mind to grab the Almond-flavored ones first. Oh right, cheese. Not forgetting the cheese this time, otherwise it will be just the same as before.

"If it's pasta, I will have to say Parmesan out aloud, my darling!"

Sometimes Chris really believes that someone, or everyone, is reporting his status or whereabouts to the one man who actually bothers finding out everything about him.

Staring at the packaging of pre-packed cheese in the fridge, Chris noticed an aged left hand grabbing his right hand, leading him to put the cheese back to its position. As soon as he returned the dairy product however, he quickly removed his hand from the touch, flinching from the cold metal worn around the intruder's ring finger. The thick heavy gold wrapping around a sturdy carat of emerald protruded from the circular smooth surface of the accessory. This piece of jewelry has Chris unwillingly acquainted to it as compared to the diamonds and shimmers other ladies decorated themselves with from what he could see on the streets. Gold, the senior fighter is no fan of its luminosity. He prefers the quality of silver and its purity, which explains why he actually bothers purchasing silver kitchenware other than the fact that silver is cheaper in Europe. As for gemstones, he has no desire for its fanciness so to speak, but if he had to pick one in the event of a TV show or lucky draw, sapphire was quite the cut he recalled. Now reverting to the reality at hand, Chris realizes the predicament he is thrown into with the infamous celebrity standing beside him for he could see ladies casting their attentions in his way.

"You really have to stop this darling thing, Yurkov." Chris warned in a manner similar to a kindergarten teacher telling a child off. Even if they were meant to be amusing, chances prevailed that this time the endearment ticked the wrong side of the aged man's tolerance mildly. He made no attempts to turn to his intruder and simply continued searching through the fridge for the Parmesan cheese that was mentioned, quickly loading the ingredient into his shopping cart once found.

"But darling, I've told you time and time again how serious I am about you to become my darling!" Yurkov followed his object of passion to the isle filled with canned products, watching him selectively reading through the information contents on the labels. "And please, call me Alexei, darling."

Chris rolled his eyes inwardly.

If reading the distribution address on a canned soup was not enough sign to tell the outsider the reader is disinterested in the outsider's conversation, then the reader must be seriously dealing with some self-absorbent guy which in this case, Chris knows is what he is dealing with. Yurkov can be a great guy—friendly, loud, outgoing, warm and sincere but he is as stubborn as any Russian he has heard of is. The first time he tried to send Chris home, he had gone all out to make the latter reveal his address otherwise he was going to lock them both in his restaurant for the night. Tipsy and fuzzy then, the ex-fighter thought the gesture was rather cute and had indulgently played along with his little act of sincerity. He even let the chef stayed over at his place for the night and bunked onto the same bed with him as if two brothers would. But before anybody starts speculating, clearly no sex was involved. Although, some cuddling and rubbing could be said otherwise. So judging from there, what Chris really did not expect was the spontaneous flirting turning into a long chase to where he was now: stalked on grocery shopping. Way to go, Chris Redfield. Way to go.

"Yurkov, you do not ask someone to be your darling when you are clearly," the ex-fighter took a deep breath as he stood up from the floor, staring at the blinding golden ring on his wedding finger, "married."

"But Alexei is divorced! I wear this only because it looks nice on me. Even you said so, darling!"

Or maybe not.

"I was drunk then Yurkov and besides, I'm not into you. You're a great guy, a great friend. You even got me a great ride. But this doesn't mean that I am interested in you, you have to understand that."

Advance-Delay Tactics 101: Day 58, verse 43.

It was like chanting a sutra over and over again, the art of stalling a stalker who is head over heels for you. It would not be a problem to exercise the notion if it works…

"It's okay darling. I know it takes time for you to adjust to a man liking you but this is not a problem for Alexei. I can wait, until you are ready to accept me. Because I really like you, I will be patient. Now, let me help you with the grocery."

Except, it doesn't.

Sweeping the trolley from Chris' hands, Yurkov pushed the trolley slightly away to recommend the different brands of canned products, which he later stopped to suggest that he could just come over to cook for the ex-fighter if he could. Barely hesitant, the latter politely declined his goodwill and implored him to use his sincerity on the grocery shopping instead. Chris knew this would eventually end up with Yurkov insisting to come over to his place to make dinner with him especially since today is Thursday, _Simţire's _day off. What made it worse was Chris also knew that he was going to lose this battle if he tried to stop the chef from coming over. Therefore, if this was going to happen, he had to begin strategizing a contingency plan to help his ass remain molest-free the entire time while the Russian comes over. If you thought the reason why the proud ex-B.S.A.A. member did not retaliate against the seven-foot tall, 250-pound chef was due to fear, then you must have most definitely mistaken his gratitude for cowardice. Chris was well aware that he had things coming easy and convenient through the hands of Yurkov. This chef had been smoothing paths behind his back in more ways than he was told. Yet, he wished to remain grateful towards his hospitality, with no means of wanting to take advantage of the 45-year-old man either. It wasn't like he was going to lose some flesh from ass grabbing, he just needed to devise an alternative to distract the chef from doing it. Then again, Yurkov is really intense with ass grabbing. He once kneaded his ass too much that he began grinding against it. Chris had to pull the brakes when he threatened to knock the lights out of him and made sure he would never see him again after that. Yurkov frantically apologized immediately and kept his hands to himself that very night, though the ex-fighter knew it was going to be a one-day-thing only. Hence, the plan.

"Could you bring me the salt and pepper please, Chris?" Any woman, or man in certain rare occasions, on the street who knows Yurkov would kill to have him in their kitchen cooking for them willingly. Safe to say that Chris is definitely not one of them. He handed the condiments to the expert chef as he kept his stocked-up groceries away, the scent of tomato and basil spreading through his kitchen. Mission Ass-Protect is a go.

The chef continued to whip dishes over the stove, stir-frying tomatoes with thyme, feta cheese, garlic and capsicums in preparation for the baguette grilling over in the oven; a signature Italian appetizer, Bruschetta. Over another flame, he stirred the rich chicken broth as it simmered potatoes along with sausages and onion in it. Tuscan soup he recalled, simple yet elegant to serve. Straining linguine over a pot of boiling water, the chef dropped the pasta into the tomato puree broiled with onions, basil and sliced chicken meat. Then grabbing a handful of the Parmesan cheese they bought earlier, he melted the cheese into the tomato-based pasta, strings of its stickiness forming in the heated pan. Familiar with the apartment, Yurkov opened the cabinets attached to the ceiling to retrieve the porcelain dishware, overly satisfied with his presentation. Today is the day he intends to wow his darling.

Fully aware that his lunch was going to turn into a dinner with the introduction of Alexei Yurkov, Chris had previously stuffed two energy bars down and half a pint of milk with it. Finally comfortable with the disposure of the new shopping, the owner stood beside the charming chef as he garnished the pasta arranged in his serving plate. Yurkov is what you would call the epitome of manliness, not that Chris fell short of the expectation. A fine quality that sets the Russian brute apart from other men, and this is not in comparison to the alluring charisma he possessed. Set of deep dark brows, growing thick and luscious towards the nose bridge while prim and sharp at the opposite end. Not to mention his deep eye sockets, intensifying hazel irises clearly seen from short tidy lashes. A pointed nose, smart and triangular to the likes of Englishman in the 18th century. Thin rosy lips complimented by the mild tan evening throughout his complexion, enhancing rigid jaw lines from the corners of his face with weak wrinkles forming across his forehead and eyelids. Similarly brunette much like himself, his hairstyle known as the Pompadour, an old-fashioned cut that fitted him to a T. His body well trained and refined, contours definitively cut at his joints and ribs. Perhaps the Russians forced male citizens to train and build up during their army service; Chris could barely accept the fact that perfection actually existed. Correction, he is probably only reluctant to accept perfection hitting on him that's why. The last perfection he remembered hitting on him was the mirage of his perfect captain, only the man turned into a blasphemy in strives to become a God. One experience with perfection was bad enough to consider it a second time.

"Darling, could you bring the plates over to your dining table? Dinner is served." Exasperation followed the owner as he lent a helping hand to sit up the table. Mean would be to discredit the luxurious spread the chef had prepared for Chris and cruelty would be to lie that the food was barely fantastic because they were absolutely scrumptious. Capable of neither both, the owner settled in his seat before his personal chef served the appetizer and soup to his table. The small dining table comfortably fits four on each side of its shape, allowing Yurkov to sit right next to the owner if not opposite him. Pulling up closer to the younger man, his eyes followed the hem of the tank top Chris put on to its sleeveless cutting, then to his shoulder joints and collarbone. Oh, how much time he had spent dreaming about sinking his teeth into that exposed sexy piece of flesh, nipping along its deep setting to his nape back around as he ravished the remains of his body. Falling into the night where he touched the younger male at the most intimate of places, fingertips trailing the contours of his masculinity and lips brushing over his quivering. He would hear the soft breathing in the silence, visualizing his chest rising and falling from gasping while he continued kissing every inch of skin. If he could, he would stop to tease his hardened nipples, tongue flicking over his sensitivity to elicit the sweetest music to his ears. Then he could also perhaps, push his luck a little further to his lower half, where beneath his pants contained a raging hard-on yearning for his attention as he licked his lower lips, ready to engulf its eagerness and…

"Your food's turning cold, Yurkov."

Stare at his own erection, at the dining table.

Mild, but definitely awakened.

Chris had started on his pasta when he realized that the chef was still staring at his plate, imagination telling him that he might have seen a string of drool sliding off the corner of the latter's mouth. The latter must have gone daydreaming again. The younger male found the chef having tendencies to do so as of late; eyes locked deep into space, leaving reality behind and dreaming of a dream. And each time he asked what the chef had been daydreaming about in his fantasies…

"Nothing, Chris. It's really nothing." The answer is always preset.

Then Chris' response would always be preset as well, "Alright."

"Sorry if I looked distracted, darling. Maybe it's just tiredness catching up with Alexei." The follow-up was new however, experience told the younger male he was not going to buy that as the real answer either. Feigning convinced, Chris nodded to accept the explanation given, not that it was really needed to begin with.

"It's okay. Restaurant business must be wearing you out."

"Ah yes… but the restaurant is what made Alexei meet Chris. I am happy that Chris enjoys eating at my restaurant. As long as you are happy, I will be happy too."

Yurkov gently placed a hand over Chris' hand, kneading his fingers with his own as he tried to thread his fingers through his. But very quickly, the younger male withdrew his hands from the table, looking away from the Russian chef whom he figured could now be wearing a slightly pained look on his face. The ex-fighter did not leave Portland in search of new romance in his life but to find solace in a foreign land to start afresh, begin anew. He had never thought of him being sexually appealing towards guys, or guys being sexually attractive to him. There had only ever been one exception in his entire life, one blonde who had captivated all of him, making him surrender to his possession, binding him with the love he harbored for the said blonde. The relationship they had, or if they ever had, were some of the most precious memories he would hold onto for life, carving the imprints of his hands embracing around his body for they remained possessive even in death. However even with that being said, Chris knew memories in the mind were like the photographs sitting on his bed frame, they were meant to be a phase, history to be engraved in the vast storage of the human mind. Life continues to move on after that.

Even if any part of your mind wishes to stay at standstill, it has to go on.

"Sorry. I can't." Chris' reply was blunt and cut to the chase. This is not the right time.

Yurkov knows none of this is Chris' fault. He was the impatient one. His darling was the benevolent one who had repetitively forgave him of his impulsions. He was an angel, sent from heavens above, here perhaps to serve a sentence for a wrong deed he had done, to endure suffering for the sins he had committed, or maybe to have been banished for loving someone he could not. There is nothing more sinful than love itself, and it is the very same kind of love Yurkov longed to shower his angel in. If only he was given a chance to prove this love to him, he would take him away from all the pain and suffering he barricades himself in, end the misery he lives with. There are many variations of the ex-fighter's life conjured in the chef's mind, the lifelong chapter of his life spent in France had absorbed him in many ways, explaining the dramatic melancholic interpretation of Chris' life as seen from above. Patience is virtue, patience bears fruit to those who wait.

"It's alright, darling! Come, let us go to the kitchen to prepare dessert." The Russian chef cleared their dishes from the table as he brought them into the kitchen. "I have previously refrigerated the raspberry Bavarian cream in your fridge and I can smell the chocolate tartlets ready from the oven! You are going to have to help me fill them up, darling."

As Chris turned into his kitchen, he could not help but bring a smile to his face watching the back of the giant squeezing around his tiny kitchen, washing the dishes up in the singular sink. He personally assumed that the size of Yurkov's kitchen back at home should be the size of his entire apartment. It simply would not justify a chef to have a miserable kitchen, much like the one he has, back in the comfort of his own home. Quietly he stepped to the fridge, opening it to find a porcelain bowl sitting in the middle deck, a clean wrap covering its peak. A whiff of the chocolaty aroma filled his kitchen this time as he turned to the source of the sweet scent; a dozen of freshly baked chocolate tart base sitting on the baking tray, courtesy of Alexei Yurkov once more.

"Come over here, darling! We'll have to wait 'til these bases cool before we can fill the cream in. Otherwise they are going to melt and spoil the taste."

So the assistant placed the bowl next to the baking tray and headed over to the kitchen counter, observing the Russian chef melting a small portion of dark chocolate in a glass bowl over boiling water. Yurkov signaled to his assistant to give it a try, that he could learn to melt chocolate the next time if he needed to. Accommodating, Chris leaned towards the counter, holding the wooden spoon previously used and stirred the mixture. The chef disappeared for a moment and returned with a small bowl of chopped Almonds, somehow discovering his angel's preference for its distinct taste. He poured the ingredient in and watched him continued stirring, instinctively placing a hand on his assistant's hip when he leaned into his back, head aligning above the other's shoulder. This was what Mission Ass-Protect was prepared for.

"I'm just going to check on the tarts, why not you stir it?" Chris tried to slip from his touch, but he could feel the pressure planted firmly on his hip sliding down towards his ass. Yurkov brought another hand down onto the kitchen counter, blocking one exit while he pressed closer onto his assistant. He grinned playfully at his subdued, his molesting hand rubbing circles around the firm cheeks behind. He had learnt the art of being French well it seemed, intimacy was a brilliant form of art to express desire. Unfortunately, the American did not pick that up well for he pressed his rear hard into the kitchen counter behind him, inflicting a wince on Yurkov's face from the objection. The chef quickly retrieved his hand to nurse the sting, which in turn allowing his assistant to flee the scene.

"Oh I'm right. The tartlets have cooled, Yurkov."

After a couple of tartlets and a small drink, well small being a glass or two of Cabernet, Chris walked Yurkov to his door and reminded the latter to board a cab home immediately. Rosy and warmly, the friendly chef threw a big hug around the owner's shoulders as he greeted him goodnight. The latter returned the embrace, one arm patting the back of the chef who nuzzled in his shoulders.

"Maybe I could stay—"

"No. You have to open the restaurant tomorrow. Good night, Yurkov."

"Urgh… Well then, noapte buna darling." Relentless, the Russian chef leaned towards the side of Chris' in attempts to kiss goodnight but was expectantly met with the owner's resistance as he turned away from his approach. Tonight he had spent time with his angel, cooked for his darling, and made desserts together sharing over a few glasses of wine. He realized he should stop pushing his luck for the night. Throwing a half-drunk smile, he bid adieu and made way to exit by the staircase. Weekend is around the corner, he can see his darling again until then.

Refreshed after a warm bath, Chris found himself sitting at his desk loading his laptop to retrieve some emails. The time difference is about 10 hours apart, the senior had hoped to receive some response from the ingrate organization. Tapping the enter key on the keyboard, the white screen loaded a couple of advertisements into his email, but none was what he waited for. Just as he was about to log out, a surprise came in most recently from a sender namely Claire. Soon after he clicked into the message, he briefly read the contents from his beloved sister. She generally summarized her attempts to investigate the whole ordeal her brother had gone through previously, determined to find out the cause for what had happened. Jill on the other hand, as informed, seemed to have been sent outstation to another location, not once seen after Chris' departure. _I will definitely find a way to clear your name!_, was Claire's way of reassuring her brother that his efforts would not go in vain. Sometimes they work, sometimes they don't; tonight, they sure did. It no longer mattered as much as it initially did whether if Chris could return to B.S.A.A., he was more concerned to clear his name in order to reunite with his sister. Even if Claire knew her brother had done nothing wrong, the reality slapping hard was quite the opposite. The last thing he wanted was he being court-martialed out of Sally's on a Sunday morning while having pancakes with his sister.

The thought of that made him sick. Damn those son of a bitches.

So quickly, he thought about writing those upsetting feelings in his online journal to prevent them from corrupting his mood. However, as soon as he logged into his account, he noticed a notification blinking on the top right hand corner of the page. Months of journaling and this, this was the first time Chris saw something like that appearing. The mundane cycle broke its chain as the pop-up sprung into life, informing the author that he has received a comment on his most recent entry, which was just this afternoon. Curious, the said man hovered his cursor over the URL displayed, waiting the transfer to his entry page.

He stopped and forgot to breathe once he scrolled downwards to read the comment.

Unbelievable.

/

_**Anonymous said on:**  
April 29, 2010 Thursday 08:48PM (GMT +3:00)_

_I do not see what you have to complain in life, Mr. Red. You said yourself that you are a national hero leading a promising career who was stabbed right in the back by your comrades. In my honest opinion, you are just too full of yourself and too caught up in your own dissatisfaction. Have you truly ignored the good your sister is trying to justify for you, or have you hurt her as much as you have hurt the others when you decided to silently depart to god-knows-where? Oh right, Moldova you said. Does everything only revolve around you?_

_Did you expect a victory parade in commemoration to your recent heroism?_

_A mental check-up after a recent exposure of missionary work is only a standard procedure to certify that you have not been overly expended in the course of your job. This is just a godforsaken measure to make sure you are still sane after witnessing whatever you might have seen in the line. Instead, you would like to think that the organization that you are working for is taking you for a lunatic. If they thought so, I'd be sure that they have you locked up in a straitjacket and sent straight to the nearest asylum. Does that make your infinite parole sound much more enticing now? Or are you now more convinced that you are really mentally unstable?_

_Why do you have to question everything that you are not aware of? Has it ever occurred to you that the only reason why you weren't informed could be as simple as the lack of need to do so?_

_You don't want your job back, Mr. Red. But neither do you want to lose it either. Confusion leaves you only wanting justice, which you have no use for it either._

_This is not what you are best at performing because this is not what you are fighting for._

_Until you recognize what you truly want in life, you will never be happy._

_P.S. Never go empty on your stomach, it makes you grumpy easily._

/

The chocolate tartlet slipped from the author's hand onto the floor.

* * *

_* Sarmale (Sarma): A Romanian dish, usually made of minced meat stuffed in vine leaves._  
_** Plavai: A Moldovan white grape wine once popular in the 19th century._

There we have it, chapter one. How did you find it? Reviews deeply appreciated.


	2. Cruel Day, Solace Night

**Disclaimer: I don't own Capcom or Resident Evil.**

* * *

_I cannot thank enough for the reviews. Not complaining here but do keep them coming at me, okay? I'm glad the new style is interesting to you readers out there, it's actually pretty fun to write it too. So here's the next part of Chris' wonderful new life._

* * *

It was a bright and sunny morning when the scent of blueberry fluttered through the apartment window. The half naked stud stirred from his sleep, pleasantly awakened by the welcoming aroma as he rubbed his eye, grabbed the alarm clock, and realized it's six-thirty displayed in electronic red. Stalling wash up, he ran a hand through his bed hair and grabbed a jacket from the clothes stand, making quick steps to and out of his door to start the day afresh. By that, it meant two blueberry bagels served in butter and apricot jam, with scrambled eggs and a hot cup of coffee. Yup, the ultimate breakfast day-starter.

"The usual, Chris?" One Colette Dupont, the female shop attendant winked at the stud, remembering his usual after the few months he had begun patronizing. She is said to be the granddaughter of the patisserie running the bakery, and the ex-fighter slightly winced inside thinking if the girl was openly flirting around with him, gathering she was young enough to be his daughter. He conveniently chose the option to feign and ignore out of that, believing his old age being too paranoid about anyone coming on him ever since Yurkov. The French seems to have highly adopted this trait of being overly passionate and Chris could neither pretend to bat for either teams. They settle for both for crying out loud!

Pardon a moment to understand that the problem isn't that she deterred him however, it is only natural he would prefer someone closer to his age. Closest being someone such as Jill perhaps…

Only if she didn't decide to switch sides.

"Yes please, Ms. Dupont."

"Oh please, do not be so humble. Call me Colette. Miss sounds very old!" The cheerful mademoiselle laughed in her French accent while she folded the paper bag containing the god-sent bagels. "I've added a croissant. It's on the house!"

Despite Chris' umpteen attempts to refuse the kind gesture, equally stubborn matched was she insisted the elder male to have it. So offering the best smile he could muster for the morning, the stud accepted the token and bid goodbye aloud before he took off to the café across the street. He quickly greeted the other familiar face in the retail and asked for his usual. The fresh aroma filled the café where the morning people arrived for their daily dose of caffeine. Plenty of bachelors sat around, but a couple of those married too hid in the crowd. The sparkle on their ring occasionally reflected light, causing Chris to shudder at the thought of bumping into one shining in gold and emerald. Picking up the takeout from the serving counter and bidding adieu, he darted for the exit, always better to be safe than sorry.

Apparently the loud greetings was one of the main reasons how the employees came to recognize him as a regular customer. He enjoyed being appreciative and they too, appreciated being so.

Oh before this continues, there is a good reason why Chris has woken up this early on a beautiful Tuesday.

It is his first day of work.

Months of lulling and it has come to this: this has to stop. The free time he has on hand is too much to handle and deal with. Vacation time was over and he felt it was time to return to society to work, any work would just do. Thus, he found or rather was introduced to a new job, unfortunately not as a mercenary or some military-based work where those trained hands could be put to some use but rather…

An English teacher—no, a part-time English language elementary school teacher.

Little did Chris Redfield ever guess he would become a teacher at some point in his life.

Nevertheless, life is full of surprises, isn't it always?

It was told that the local elementary school had always been lacking a proper English teacher. It sounds pretty unbelievable for the first time given that Moldova was one of the European countries in the region but the truth is, not many teachers could accurately enunciate the syllables in English. Local teachers came from around the region, Romania, Serbia, Ukraine, so it was unfortunate to say that they did not have the most fantastic ability to deliver English speech at its best. The current language tutor is a lady from Croatia, been out here teaching for the last four years. Her phonics classes have been appropriately delivered just enough to ensure the students they are right on track, to the school's blessing. However, even with that being said, she recently announced she has made plans to return to her hometown to settle down with her fiancée, which is where the crucial part came in: the stipulated deadline is six months from now. The school has been on a desperate hunt for a replacement ever since, the thought of losing their one and only English teacher frightens them. As a result, this is how it has come to this point of evaluation, and what better cliché way to put it other than 'Chris Redfield to the rescue'!

Just a couple of nights ago, an evening at Simţire, the ex-fighter was sitting around enjoying his pint of beer where he bumped into the local teachers. They sat a table close to him, eavesdropping becoming clearly unintended yet accessible when they began discussing about their search for a new English language teacher. It didn't bother the male until late into the session, when final orders closed and Yurkov came out to join him at his table, he too listening to the ladies whining about their predicament. Assuming the lady in ginger textured bangs is the principal, she was vastly interrupted by the Russian chef in the middle of her speech. Her other companions, shocked by the unruly behavior, held their breaths as soon as they realized the brute was the stunning chef. The elder lady however, was the least impressed and couldn't wait to start ticking the latter off when he interrupted her again, and this time even Chris told him to bug out of other people's affair.

"_Non Madame_, if you could just listen—"

"Such a rude man under in that glamour you have, showing no res—"

"—Chris! You should just hire Chris!"

Which brings us to today, Tuesday morning, cleaned, freshened up and ready seated at the dining table enjoying the breakfast bought a couple of minutes ago. Thankfully he doesn't have to show up in a dress shirt, Chris almost hated them to the core.

Speaking of dress shirts, there used to be a certain someone who had put them on rather fittingly…

That measly thought made him wanted to sock himself in the face for remembering something as redundant as that. But God must have wanted to save his miserable sorry ass for his phone rang at the moment he was about to put his fist between his eyes and break a nose or something.

"Hello?"

"_Bonjour_ darling! Good to hear you have woken up and sounding fresh! Nervous about your first day of work?"

It sounded pleasant to have someone on the end of the other line in the early morning to mitigate the invisible tension Chris barely recognized within himself. The idea of someone wanting to share your moments was in a way… special, even if that someone was Yurkov, "Kinda. I've never been a good student myself, I don't really think I can teach those kids."

"Nonsense! You have a good amount of patience, darling. Alexei knows it best! The kids will love you, we need some of your American erm… what's that word… sunshine?"

Chris stifled a chuckle, knowing that was Yurkov's way of encouraging him, although sunshine was too bright a word to use on him. "Influence you mean?"

"Yes yes! We need some of that opened-up influence. People here always go by the books. It is very dull and boring. No good if we are going to raise kids to become boring adults. They don't even practice theatrical arts here! Can you believe it, darling?!"

"Easy, Yurkov. We're only talking about elementary school kids." The ex-fighter took a bite off his bagel as he walked into his kitchen to grab some hot water for his coffee.

"You're right. Anyways, you'll do fine, darling. How about we meet for dinner tonight? It will be a celebration to your first day of work."

Dinner would sound appealing with anyone but with Yurkov, Chris wanted to avoid sending the wrong signal to the guy. Like what he has always been telling the latter, he is a great friend but no part of their friendship is romantically inclined towards progression. But also he knows exactly how delusional said male can be; the amount of times he had deflected his blunt declaration were as good as him making none to begin with. Plus the effort he puts to dodge said male coming onto him would too become invisible from that denial. Everything Chris says becomes invisible at some point when they become too clear. With all that going through Chris' mind, it suddenly becomes difficult to even make a simple decision for dinner.

"Darling?" The silence worried the Russian chef.

"Huh? Oh. Sorry about that, yeah dinner is fine. Let me know the venue and I'll see you there." So he lets his first instinct take control, which proves that he values the friendship they have than the problems that come along with it.

"Great! I'll text you. Have a pleasant day ahead and I will see you later!"

Putting his cell phone away, the ex-fighter moved over to his workstation and fired up his email, jotting down the directions to the school. It was no secret he had been nervous the whole time since the moment the principal decided to take him for a test run, a trial probation of some sort. He obviously lacked the papers and education to adequately teach, much less guide young children but Yurkov convinced otherwise. He convinced the principal that despite having no proper form of certification to prove his academic performance or eligibility, Chris has a heart of gold, a ton of patience and a deep level of understanding. Besides, he has the natural critical ability to speak English because he is an American. All he needed was a little brushing up to work with the contents of the curriculum and he would be ready to go. If those did not convince the elder lady, then whatever Yurkov subsequently said in French with her definitely did the work. Chris recalled him awkwardly smiling each time she cast an eye at him, much of it making him feel moronic now for smiling at something he did not understand then. It wasn't actually Yurkov's fault for being spontaneous during the dinner either. Chris had in fact mentioned a few times to him that he was getting tired of the free time he had on hand and he really wanted to find some real work to do. What happened during the dinner was simply a perfect opportunity; one that Chris never considered to which Yurkov believed was beautifully timed as it came.

Other than communicating with the Russian chef, the ex-fighter came close to no one to share his thoughts. Most of his ramblings all went to his journal, the online confidante. It never slips up. Except, his personal space has recently been invaded by the presence of _Mr. Anonymous, _a.k.a._ Mr. A_. It has been six or seven correspondences since the first one made, the most recent being his rebuttal against his idea of getting a job in the new land.

/

_Anonymous said on:  
**June 17, 2010 Thursday 06:13PM (GMT +3:00)**_

_Good evening, Mr. Red. I can see that you have yet another journal update. This is becoming a rather good habit of mine to be updated with the interesting tales of your life. Now before I begin, I should compliment your stubbornness in your previous entry before this. You should open your eyes to the surrounding you live in. You are not alone in this world. Instead of boggling yourself with all the what-ifs and whats-not, you should be more concerned about the other things happening in your own world. Isn't it about time you cast your pride aside and do what is best for yourself?_

_Now that being said, let us move onto today's topic: jobs. My goodness, you actually are capable of feeling bored from this tiresome lifestyle of yours. Good to know that, otherwise I wouldn't vouch for the remains of your sanity. They clearly weren't insurable. _

_Words are definitely not your weapon of choice, Mr. Red. I could outtalk you in a minute if you planned to use them to defend yourself. Once again, you have decided to delude yourself by avoiding the question I have posed to you since day one of our correspondence that is if, you can call this a correspondence when you don't respond in any way. You cannot perform best at anything if it is not what you want. So what on earth made you think that finding a random job available on the streets is going to help motivate you back into life? Free yourself from all this hiding. Stop running back to your old life if you have chosen to be here._

_P.S. However, I do applaud your courage to move on with what little you have._

/

Chris was not the least flattered by the postscript. He has not once responded to his anonymous reader but it really pisses him off seeing the stranger behaving as though he knows everything about him. The worst part was the stranger is actually right about him. His responses nailed him right in the gut each and every time. It frightened the ex-fighter, knowing the existence of someone who understood him more than he did, slapping all the reality he tried running from back in his face, making all his attempts to escape from the nightmare back home a reality he had to face all over again. Why did he ever decide to come to Moldova? What was his backup plan? Where did he wanted to go? How was he going to let go of his past? What is he trying to accomplish by running away? Why is he not back in Portland to confront them?

Or… was he just behaving like what Mr. A had said?

_[You are just like an adolescent, a growing teenager hitting his puberty. You make all this talk, show all these actions just to yearn that fraction of attention from others. An attention seeker is what you are, like a high school cheerleader who deliberately pours beer over her white uniform so that boys would patronize.]_

The ex-fighter slammed his cup of coffee on the desk. Damn that reader, he knows no shit about the life he has been through. He is just someone comfortably sitting behind a computer screen mocking him. He ain't been through any shit. He must have been some rich bloke whose family mined gold or something, born with a silver or gold spoon so he thinks he's got the right to mess with other people's lives. It doesn't matter even if his good command of English may actually mean this person knows what he is talking about, Chris has already given the boo to this bugger. It also didn't matter if there used to be someone capable of telling him off in the exact capacity because that person is already dead. No one gets the same authority to tell him what he should do other than him. Wait, that isn't right either.

Do you believe in life after death?

Chris has been hovering over this question ever since the third or fourth correspondence from Mr. A. He secretly addressed Mr. Anonymous as Mr. A; not for the coincidence of the referred deceased's first name beginning with the contextual alphabet, it simply gave him the right to call him Mr. Asshole instead.

He remembered that day.

All the details of the viral contamination plan, the plane crash, the volcano, the larva, the berserk, the struggle to save mankind, the scream, the partners, the rocket launchers, everything. The scream haunted his mind; the look in his deranged red serpent eyes, his desperate yet infuriated voice, and the… creepy appendages projecting from the virus host, him. He could no longer tell if the virus had overtaken his sanity, that he could not hear his voice despite his persistence to stop him from all the madness. He wanted to save him. If only he could put his plans down, he would never give him up even if it cost him everything. There were times… in fact chances when he could have killed Chris but he didn't. Time and time again, always insisting that his ex-subordinate was saved by the bell and thus letting him go, fully knowing that the latter would never stop at pursuing him. Chris spent his entire youth chasing the shadow of his deceased captain and when he finally caught it, the flesh of his captain's body was all that remained. The loving man was gone, the remains of Albert Wesker was nothing but a shell of nightmare that continued to curse his affection. The most regrettable love he had to experience in life, yet unforgettably the most devoted he had ever commit to. It continued to haunt him after death, life in Portland reminded him of that.

So he ran.

Ran as far as he could; out of sight, out of touch, out of reach.

Until now. It all resurfaced. By the hands of Mr. A, Mr. Asshole. Why did he even begin to consider that in the first place? People don't come back to life after they die. Okay maybe he did the first time but after eating two missiles in the face? Chris didn't think so. This must be some warped melancholy or mental disease: paranoia or maybe even schizophrenia. Does that make the organization right about discharging him? Chris cannot even begin to analyze his options. He even hesitated a dinner plan with Yurkov just moments ago thinking about all the wrong signals he may send which he has not even started sending. It is official; cooping up doing nothing at home is definitely mentally dangerous.

Spiteful, the soon-to-be teacher signed into his journal account and decided to send a quick rebuttal to his wired nemesis, for the very first time.

/

**Date: June 22, 2010 Tuesday**  
**Time: 07:24AM (GMT +3:00)**  
**Mood: Fresh and ready**

Dear Mr. A,

It is my greatest pleasure to inform you that I have found a job with or without your blessing. I think your over-the-top advices didn't go so well this time.

Laters.

/

The school compound is but a fifteen-minute drive away. The buildings are old with grime stains and paint fading from age and rain. Rain has been eminent over summer and to Chris' surprise, the start of summer in Moldova felt the same as it did in Portland. Temperature is relatively cooling in June and daytime is equally long. The similarity is convenient to his adaptation, though he has generally become used to the heat back in his outfield days.

Clad in a navy turtleneck and gray chinos, Chris made his way down the corridor in search of the principal's office. The thought of the elder lady made him uneasy for a moment, he unwillingly recalled the way she was scrutinizing him the other day at the restaurant. In no way was that her way of checking him out. If she had already been polite that day, then there is no reason she needs to be today now that he is under her payroll, her mercy. Will she treat him with hostility due to Yurkov's rude interference the other time? Maybe she might put him to handle the hardest class to deal with, and then deduce his inability to teach for being unable to control his class. On the other hand, even if he did well, would she cast his achievements as inexistent? With the little confidence he brought with him, he stopped at the end of the walkway, staring at the door holding the sign saying "Principal's Office". The man fearless of countless zombies is now as frightened as any six-year-old before the school principal's office.

"Good morning, Mr. Redfield. I am Dupont, principal of the Tiraspol Elementary School. I humbly welcome you to our school." Her voice is formal but cool, expression calm but unimpressed—no signs of hostility yet. The elder lady showed a hand out from her back and initiated a handshake with her new staff, which he eagerly returned the gesture. Her surname rang a bell somewhere in his head, not that it was bothering him but he was certain he had heard this name somewhere before.

"Thank you, Madame Dupont. I'm honored to be here." Chris stiffly responded, still intimidated by the elderly woman whose beady eyes scowled at his rigidity.

"Come. Let me show you your desk."

Retracting her hand to her back, Chris walked alongside Dupont as he listened to her brief explanation about the history of the school. She also informed him of the specific areas for the different classes to be conducted in the respective sections they crossed into. The almost-to-be teacher occasionally peered into the classrooms they passed by, watching some juniors jotting down their exercises or narrating their texts. His anxiety slowly unfolded into excitement thinking about the class that would soon be assigned to him, the children under his guidance, not in the military sense though. It then suddenly occurred to him that no one knew he was an ex-militia, and no one actually bothered asking him for a resume and he was just… hired? Not that his curriculum vitae is honorably flashing with two discharges and one disassembly, he is neither ashamed to speak the truth either.

It must be Yurkov. He must remember to ask the latter what he has said to Dupont later tonight.

"Ms. Barbir, this is Mr. Redfield." Dupont led Chris into the teachers' room, bringing him to an empty desk with a youthful woman seated right opposite of him.

"Good morning, Mr. Redfield. I am Modrina Barbir, the school's English teacher. You can call me Modrina, like the color of the top you are wearing, dark blue." She politely stood up from her seat and brought a hand out; Chris feels comfortable with this handshake as compared to the one before. He took her hand firmly while smiling in return. Maybe life might not be so tough under the correct guidance. She certainly looked much more helpful than Madame Dupont would be.

"Chris Redfield. Good morning to you too."

"Now that the both of you are acquainted, I will leave him in your care, Ms. Barbir. Please take him to the corresponding classes when the time is up. I have already given you the schedule so please stick to the training program."

"Yes, Madame Dupont."

Then it struck Chris.

"Excuse me Madame Dupont but do you, by any chance, know a girl by the name of Colette?"

Squinting her tiny eyes, she gave Chris a menacing stare before she proceeded to nod her head, fold arms across her chest as she tilted her head slightly aback, watching her new staff very intensely.

"Firstly, please do not use your American language in my school. If there is a question you would like to ask, please speak properly. You should rephrase your question to 'Could there be any chances that you might have come across a girl by the name of Colette' which in this case, I will reply you, 'Yes, she is my daughter'. Is there any other question, Mr. Redfield?"

The heavy French intonation suggested she was pissed, like over-the-moon level pissed at the talk of her daughter. It wasn't as if Chris shared any interest in her daughter, she just happens to be working in the bakery where he buys his breakfast from that's all. Do remember she is young enough to be his daughter! Romance, uh-uh, not an option. Although, does that indirectly establish the fact that the principal was old enough to be his wife? Oh god, anything but the grammar police. She also sounded too unhappy over a mild structure difference, which theoretically was not wrong to begin with either. British English must have also used the paraphrase he used earlier, uncommon but definitely used. Even his ex-captain wasn't as fussy over his language as this!

And he'd be damned! That actually meant the heavenly blueberry bagels belong to her family and his chances of stumbling into her other than in school has significantly multiplied.

"No, Madame Dupont. I am sure Ms. Barbir can provide me with the guidance I need." Chris' confidence felt slightly shaken after her outburst, though still wondering what did he do wrong.

"All yours, Ms. Barbir." Modrina nodded lightly as she acknowledged the principal's instruction. "One last word of advice, Mr. Redfield. You are here to teach, so please refrain from any unnecessary behavior." And with that, the elder woman headed for the exit, letting her heavy words sink into Chris while the poor man deciphered her hostility. She could not be thinking about that… How could she even begin to think of the possibilities of _that_! The new teacher instantly felt degraded to a pedophile.

"Do you know the daughter of Madame Dupont?" Modrina questioned whimsically.

Chris let out a heavy sigh. "I wished I didn't now."

"So she decided to think that you are interested in her daughter just because you know her name?"

"Yurkov please, I've had a rough day because of Madame Dupont and her daughter. You didn't see the look on her face, her skin almost melted right off it. It was just some stupid curiosity of mine and they're right, curiosity always shoots the cat."

"She just doesn't know how wonderful you are yet, _ma chérie_. She will come to her senses one day and regret how difficult she has been."

Ranting with a can of beer in his hand, the officially announced teacher emptied its contents as he slouched in an ivory chesterfield, pieced in the center of the spacious living room. Yurkov lives on the other side of the town, in his bachelor bungalow alongside with the other rich and famous. The faux sheepskin rug placed on the floor of the living room was broad, allowing all the furniture to sit on top of it. The soft nuzzle tickles Chris' feet as he sneakily rubbed the base of his feet on it, adoring the texture playfully. Surrounded by the three-piece six-seater chesterfield would be the eye-catching glass coffee table, square-faced panel suspended by a white marble stand. What made it intricate was the drawer housed in the solid marble, crafted by Maplewood hidden by a thin slab of the same marble, pattern uninterrupted. Even the home theatre system was furnished in elegance, ivory and metallic gold, and the drapes likewise in the same color fixture. There is not only one but two Victorian chandeliers hanging in the living and dining room as well. The crystal refracting light brightened the house, tinting the ivory-toned apartment to a healthy glow. Beyond the dining room lies the open-concept kitchen, where guests can watch their chef whisking away in preparation of their meal. It seems that Yurkov has taken a fancy for the colors white and ivory; his workstation is decorated in similar fashion too. His kitchen counter stands isolated in the midst of his kitchen where he is busy garnishing the American dinner he has prepared for his angel, whom has decided to join him after leaving the comfort zone.

Granted, his kitchen is definitely not as enormous as Chris had in mind. Maybe it is just twice the size of his, three times tops. Maybe.

"I gotta say, this is one neat crash pad you've got over here." The teacher looked around the oversized house once more, which he then recalled it used to be not a bachelor's apartment.

"I'm sorry, crash what?"

"Oh crash pad. Erm a stay or a house, you know, like an apartment?" The food was ready right on time and the salivating man decided to help bring them to the dining table. And boy, that is one long table Chris has ever seen in his life.

"Ah, I see. My ex-wife liked it very much too."

"So, what made her gave up the luxury?"

"Kids. I told her I didn't want any. She wanted at least two. We became less intimate after we know our ideas are different. So she left, saying that maybe she can find another man who can have kids with her."

Putting the plate on the tablemat, Chris could not help himself at conjuring something stupid to say, despite inappropriate, "You sure you're not hiding something from me? Man to man, I get it." He threw the most serious face he could muster along with it, though he knew it was failing badly.

"What? I don't hide anything from you, darling." Yurkov looked bemused, clueless to what his angel was saying.

"It's all cool," Chris stifled another laugh escaping, "you can just tell me. I know erectile dysfunction can be really tough but—"

"Darling! I'll show you who's got an erectile dysfunction!" The Russian chef threw an arm around his angel's neck, pretending to hold him in a neck lock while the American just continued cracking at his criticism. Pulling him closer in his demeanor, Yurkov watched his angel flailed an arm around him, showing signs of surrender though his laughter had yet to subside. The cheerfulness warmed his heart a little, pleased to see that Chris had finally lost some of the tension from earlier, regaining most of his joviality. He only wanted what was good for his angel.

"Alright alright!" The crude teacher wiped the mild tears away from his eyes, "Sorry, I just couldn't help it." He pulled away and sat on the heavy wooden chair by the table, watching his steak drizzled in red wine sauce served by the chef. The growling was becoming uncontrollable; he needs that steak in his stomach right now.

"It's alright, I know you were playing around." Throwing his apron over the kitchen counter, Yurkov settled beside Chris as he watched the younger male looking back at him, waiting for some sort of sign to commence dinner politely. Those puppy eyes, unquestionable, innocent wishful eyes… For a moment, the chef thought his angel was too irresistibly adorable that he almost leaped from his seat and pounce onto him but thankfully, his senses kicked in at the very last minute to stop his immature actions. One false move could end whatever there is to between the both of them. He has made a mistake once. Patience, preach patience, practice patience. Even if the road is hard and long, he would endure and pin his hope on the tiniest chance there was. Painful? Yes, so very yes. Foolish? True, so very true. But that won't stop him either. So long as he is spared from the truth, he knows he won't be able to stop himself.

"Tuck in, darling," was all he said forcefully, "Tuck in."

The minimum gesture anyone can show after a dinner would be to help clean the dishes up, and that was exactly what Chris did. After winning a verbal war against the owner of the house, he had completed the task and set the dishes to dry over a drying rack. Now with little left to do, he backed into the reception to notice the senior amiss. Exploring the bungalow again, the chef had secretly prepared two glasses and a bottle of Plavai in the porch extending into the front yard. Intrigued, Chris parted the drapes into second heaven. It was splendid to enjoy the quiet night, and they were just in time to catch the sunset at nine.

"Chris." Yurkov muttered softly, pulling out a wooden chair beside him to accommodate his guest.

"Hey," The younger male shifted in his seat, "Thanks for the dinner."

"No matter, darling. Anything for you. How do you feel now?"

"I can't really say I'm fine but I guess much better than before."

"That's good enough for me," Arranging the glasses side by side, the chef poured the white wine into their glasses, smiling to himself as he watched his guest pulled a packet of cigarettes from his pants pocket. "Here."

Chris returned a warm smile, receiving the ceramic ashtray from its owner, "Thanks."

Just a quiet evening for two, the sun descended into the horizon it had risen from and slowly brought the light along with it. The silence of the nightfall accompanied by the slow sways from the trees, deep mellows singing with each breeze. Street lamps dimly glowed from the dark street whereas artificial lights shone from each household in the vicinity. Yurkov just wanted to enjoy this moment. He has a beautiful portrait painted in his mind; he would wake up to make breakfast in bed for two and they would tumble and toll after their meals. Then he would send his partner to work, where he goes off managing Simţire. They would both be busy with their jobs and come home later the night to share the day with each other on this very porch he installed. With any chance, after the dinner he would make, he could open a bottle of wine to warm the night as they cuddle close in the wind, running fingers through each other's hair and comfort either who has had a rough day earlier. He wants to shelter his partner in his arms, dote this person with all the pamper he showers, give all of his attention to and nurse the tender soul of the one he wants to spend eternity with. Then finally, the night would end as he brings his partner to bed with him, eager to wake up next morning to see the sleeping face of his beautiful love where he can kiss good morning to.

He has the perfect candidate for his dream.

He also knows his chances are slim. Okay not just slim, they are almost non-existent.

But he can't give up, he cannot bear to.

If he has to try until he dies, then die trying he will.

"It's almost late. I'll have to get back soon." Chris abruptly broke the silence as he extinguished the cigarette butt in the ashtray. The chef's heart almost winced at the thought of him leaving. His affection is getting too poisonous at an advanced stage.

"Yes. I think so too. But before you leave, there's something I want to discuss with you." This is the moment Yurkov has been waiting for, the main reason for hosting the dinner other than to see his angel. He has something bold in his mind, something he could pin onto. Scheming little—I mean, old chef.

"Oh? Let's hear it then."

"I've actually received an invitation to one of my annual culinary events. This one is something like a tour; you will get to eat plentiful. It's going to be held in Paris and the opening is one month away. The event will spread over a period of three days and it's really one event not to be missed!"

Chris blinked at the enthusiasm of the chef, "Well… erm… enjoy the event?"

"Ah! _Non non_, what I mean to say is, I can bring a partner to the event! …and I want you to join me!" Yurkov, in his ripe old age, is suffering a nervous breakdown by asking his angel to join him on a culinary tour in Paris. He mentally kicked his head for the anxiety attack, cursing all over his mind in French. Nevertheless the damage has been done; he takes a deep breath and waits for the verdict, timidly looking at his…surprised angel?

"Wow… I didn't see that coming," the younger male paused for a moment, "but I just started this job, I don't think I can get the vacation so easily."

"It's going to be in the middle of the summer holiday! Everyone will be on holiday here, even you, my darling!" His words fired like a rattle of machinegun bullets, and in fact not ceasing to stop, "Does that mean if you have the holiday you will come with me?"

Before Chris' mind could begin to over-analyze the amount of hope the chef could be pinning onto his answer or chances he might be betting on his response, he shut his own defense system down and spontaneously agreed, "Well yeah. Paris sounds pretty amazing to me. I can use a bit of sightseeing with someone who knows the place well." He could definitely use a real vacation this time.

This is Alexei Yurkov hyperventilating for the lack of words to describe his overly-thrilled-state-of-mind, in which he becomes unable to configure his mind to react to the corresponding situation. His happiness bar has exceeded and blown past the meter so much so that his mind is grilling over heat combusted inside from the explosion of rampant excitement. It is like the sensation of creating the most desirable chocolate sculpture of a hot-bodied woman that onlookers would let loose of their voracity. Or the feeling of thrusting every ounce of your energy into the exam paper you studied for three days and three nights and to be rewarded with a spectacular distinction at the end of it, knowing none of your effort has gone to waste. The fulfillment, the satisfaction, beyond what words could describe or people could feel.

If you didn't get any of that, it's alright. Because you're not meant to.

If you did, then congratulations! You might be the next Alexei Yurkov.

Well in any case, the focus bumps back to Yurkov; only he could describe how he truly feels at this moment. It was unstoppable. That ticklish feeling emerging from his feet scurrying through his veins, like mini jolts of electricity pulsating to his fingertips and back to his core, then rushing all at once to his brain sort of like a momentary brain freeze where everything began to get stuck there, and finally gushed out tears, laughs, screams until your face numbed. But stop right before the last part though, he did not let any of the exhilaration escaped. All that gibberish running through his head was going so fast, he felt like he needed to pull the plug. He wanted to let it out all yet he did not want to either. Conflict of interest: he wanted to remained poise before his darling to avoid freaking him out but at the same time, he wanted him to know how truly happy he was that he agreed to. So much to catch and tease, he suddenly felt like a kid who was happy he got a Christmas present but was disappointed to find out that it was only a balloon, but happy again to know that it was a batman balloon. Bottom line, he was feeling happy.

Heck, he is happy. Sky-high rocket-science happy.

"I w-will get my organizer to allocate two tickets for me," As calmly as he could manage, he caught his breath and explained what is to come next, "I will n-need your information when he is buying the t-tickets. I will also take care of your accomo-ccomo-mo-accomodation." His head is still shooting cannons just so you know.

"Relax," Chris mildly laughed at the stutter he heard, "just keep me posted. I'll check if there's that holiday you're talking about too." Said male then patted the shoulder of the senior whose cannons instantly shot flowers out of their barrels. The flower petals mysteriously exploded into fireworks parading in his imaginary sky and he could almost see a mariachi band coming all the way from Mexico.

"S-sure." Yurkov-bot robotically got up from his seat as he began to clear the drinks away. He has to keep his mind occupied otherwise he could only see the rainbows and fireworks rendezvousing in sight. His mainframe seems to be burning from the color overrun. Affection level has risen to danger zone; toxicity levels are breached and uncontainable. Mission acquired: dismiss target, "It's getting late r-right? Do you want to head back f-first now?"

The abruptness took Chris by surprise; he has never been advised to head home first by Yurkov. His usual routine would always start with a mature talk like above and end up with a little kid whining for him to stay and wait a little longer, but this? This is something new, at a whole new level. It was like the grown-up finally manned up to his other side and told the kid to stay down. Still, a little too impromptu perhaps, "Yeah… so long you're good. You're good, right?"

"Of course I am, darling! Don't stay up t-too late. Good night and sweet dreams!" Holding the door ajar to insinuate him to leave at once was also an aggressive first. As much as the younger male wanted to find out what went wrong, he figured it could be him being the one thinking too much again. He should really stop reading too much into everything. Therefore, he showed his way out of his door where he headed straight for his car, concluding that it has been a long day for them both and it would be best if they could just get some hot shower and separately head off to slumberland.

"Night!" Chris yelled from his car, bidding goodbye while he reversed into the street and drove away into the night. Yurkov, on the other hand, watched his darling leave and waited until his car went out of his sight before he closed his door.

And once the door closed, the magic begins.

"SWEET MARY MOTHER JESUS, THANK YOU OH MY DEAR LORD!"

* * *

That's that for chapter two and we know a bitch when we see one.


	3. The Present is not a Gift, maybe

**Disclaimer: I don't own Capcom or Resident Evil.**

* * *

_So I'm guessing most of you would have played Resident Evil 6 by now and it is in my defense and delight to say that Chris seems very much officially 'attached' to Piers (I sort of saw this coming before the game appeared) and I have no qualms with that. However, what comes with that is quite a pain for me because while I support this for a fact, it becomes increasingly difficult for me to look at this fiction with a straight face and devote as much emotions as I could have initially. Don't get me wrong, I still adore Chris with Wesker, but... you can say I'm in an overwhelming state caused by the strong foundation Chris and Piers has formed. That campaign didn't left me crying for god knows how many days for nothing. _

_With that said, I'm just going to say it will become expectant in my perspective that fans would drop this traditional pairing for the official pair now. No worries about that. I'm striving on my part to bring this fiction to its best and after this, I assure you there'll be a tribute to Chris and Piers. _

_Okay, enough of this self-encouraging talk. Regarding this chapter, it's going to lose some of the original jovial spirit seen in the first two chapters but it's all coming back in the next one. This chapter was really... a pain to write, considering how much I have to tell myself to leave the heavy emotional aspect out first. I'm not going to linger back into the dark side. But this is an important chapter as it helps with the build-up, especially since I've made it clear to myself I'm not going to drag this story. _

_So thanks for all the wonderful reviews from you awesome readers and I hope this chapter satisfies you as much as the previous did._

* * *

Why Mr. Red you might say.

If the default templates available for his online journal didn't decide to come in the forces of either yellow with purple or blue in black, he wouldn't have spent time searching and finally settling with the simple white-paged red font design that was much more pleasing to his eye. As reclusive as he currently is, his user member profile page is virtually a piece of blank slate; no gender, date of birth, hobbies, biography, avatar or whatever else sectioned up there. If you had a chance to look at his "Edit Profile Page", there were endless prompts to encourage him to "Enter your interest here!" or "Tell us how old you are!" so on and nagging forth. Only a bolded username stands on the top left corner of his public page, "24747867437" it showed.

And since it would look absolutely ridiculous for Mr. A to address him as _Mr. 24747867437_, Chris had assumed the red font was how his nickname _Mr. Red_ came about, though coincidentally and ironically at the same time, short for his family name.

However if Mr. A was indeed a dead man risen from the dead, could chances be that he might have possibly known the person behind this journal was Chris? Could that be the reason why he is peculiarly interested in every event happening around the younger male? And if so, did he return to take revenge on Chris, or to prolong his agony by haunting him? What would he be plotting then? A new kind of biological weapon? Something worse than Uroboros perhaps? Would he think about taking over the world by turning everyone into mindless creatures again?

Deep in the abyss Chris ran, there was no light on either ends of the path but he knew something was coming for him. His heart pumped harder as he lost the sprint his youthful days could take, panting out of breath when his legs gave way to his exhaustion. Fear has never caught up with him this intense, not when he is the hero "Chris Redfield", a name that could even send a shiver down a zombie's back. However now he is starting to feel the strain of his name bringing upon him, like a burden, an expectation he needs to live up to, even if he did not want to. It hit a spot triggering the purpose for all those past missions he had put himself out there and what they were exactly for. It didn't seem like he was doing it for himself or perhaps only in the initial stages it did so but somehow as expected, it still evolved into a duty to save the world in the end instead.

Do you know what that feels like?

Like a stray pup running in the wind, chasing after kittens soft like dandelions but somehow somewhere along the way eventually leashed to pursue wild cats like tigers and lions not out of thy will.

This was it. Aged as he was, Chris felt his resolve finally breaking as something grabbed him hard on the shoulder in his deceleration. He hissed at the brutality, forced to turn around where a pair of hateful sunglasses reflected an image of him on its lenses. Struggling now, violent and vigorous, the hand continued to grip him tight while the other pair laced in leather clasped his neck instantly. The brunette panicked when the hold tightened, cutting the air supply painfully slow as his hands wandered to his neck, frantically pulling the assailant's hand from choking him. Silence it was; no muffled chuckles or sadistic smirks, no incoming snicker from the attacker in his expectation in fact. Then the hold stilled, at a degree where Chris was still uncomfortable but no longer killing. His face burned red, eyes slightly bloodshot from the panic earlier while his breathing tuned to take it slow and deep. Other than the figure glowing before him, darkness was his only comrade and in plain words, it was a shitty one.

Chris shut his eyes tight. His heart is crying now and he doesn't want his eyes to be doing the same.

Why can't he ever run away from this?

It was then the softness of the back of a hand caressed the side of his cheek. Though comforting, he convinced himself otherwise and his body tensed, like a child afraid of the thunderstorm that would soon come after the peace. With his sight barren of light, the sensitivity of his skin heightened as he felt the tip of a fingernail, probably index, tickled down his face, along his skin and bone. He shivered at the contact, still refusing to meet eyes and bit his lower lip tightly, resisting the temptation to look at the familiar face he once eagerly woke up to. That was no longer what he wanted, he didn't want to recant those old forsaken memories anymore. Why did they even continue to exist somewhere inside him? His brain could use the excess space for something else, something more useful even, but why? Why did it still retain these useless, painful, stupid longing moments that were nothing but a lie created by his old captain?

Smack!

The pain was so sharp Chris had to jolt with his eyes staring wide open.

He knew it. He just fucking knew it.

"Ten minutes to the next class, Chris. You don't want to be late for that one."

He didn't just sleep during his lunch again, did he?

He was aware he had such occasional bouts of tendencies and had thus engaged Modrina's helpful service to slap him awake as a measure if encountered so. Nodding off during daytime was considered paralysis as to his nighttime rest, it could even let him sleep through war without knowing it happened. Some kind of sleeping disorder Jill once mentioned, though it wasn't until the death of a certain close figure to him that he realized he had it. Despite bemused, Modrina agreed, though packaged a surprise the very first time Chris used her service. The lady packed quite a punch, leaving a faint sear on the male teacher's face imprinted until the end of the day. Subsequently, she realized the need to control her strength used once she saw the impact she left on her colleague's cheek. Albeit much milder now, the destructiveness isn't under-compensated. At times, Chris would whine about being awakened in this manner even though he was the one who suggested it, but he knew without the sheer act of surprise, or pain in some cases, he wouldn't have come out of his stasis.

However today, he doesn't know what could be worse than this. An attempted murder in the madman's afterlife in his dream interrupted by the brute force of Modrina's success-driven wakeup call. If he had known otherwise, he could feel his jaw breaking if she had just exerted a tiny bit more force. Could this be considered double murder?

"Can't you cut me some slack on the force today, Modrina?" The yawning teacher stretched his back, whining like the kid who hates broccoli in his class while he nursed the sting.

"Then find a way to wake up by yourself, Mr. Redfield," she laughed as she picked her materials up from her desk. "You have two weeks to figure that out when the holidays starts next week."

Groaning, Chris quickly grabbed his teaching aids and stacked them neatly in a pile. There is a silly grin welding inside him every time he touches the crayons and color pencils he brings to class, a child inside whom he almost forgot residing somewhere in all the debris and rubbles the war he has been through brought. He was given art classes to handle too, apparently due to his popularity among the children. It has been over a month since he began teaching at Tiraspol and he really appreciated the peace it brought. No more running, hiding or taking covers from incoming gunfire or viruses. Not even phone calls or telegrams hoarding him off into the field in less than thirty minutes. It was more than a 180-degree change, four times of that sounds more like it.

If you also include the lack of time, sleep, freedom, privacy or generally life compensated, then it should be about ten times combined.

What's even better? Holidays!

Holidays that are there for a reason and one that he can actually take on the very day with the rest of the nation. When was the last time that ever happened to him? Like the upcoming two weeks of summer break. No one knew what the hell was summer break back at base so to speak. They only worked their asses off and burned their skin in the sun when required out. This is going to be the first summer break that Chris has ever had since high school and better yet, he's going to enjoy it in Paris.

Oh yes, you cannot imagine the exhilaration on Yurkov's face when Chris affirmed the summer break weeks ago. Even Chris had to be amazed that a simple trip, one that he didn't even have to spend a bani on, with the chef could bring him this much joy. When he watched the older male skipping around when he told him so, the teacher couldn't forestall a gush of merriness that he lightly embraced the senior before joining him in some small silly dance steps. Yurkov nearly suffered a brain hemorrhage from it.

With all the comfort setup here, Chris has slowly begun to lose the angst he bears for B.S.A.A. He became negligent with the emails he used to look forward to from the organization and now only eagerly anticipates Claire's replies instead. The result of his priority change was a tedious but alas complete remittance of the due paychecks he earned, though finally receiving them wasn't as fulfilling as Chris would have thought initially. Starting somewhere around mid July, he stopped swearing at them in their communications too, much to his surprise. A better phrase to describe the phenomenon would be "he simply can't be bothered anymore". His mood has significantly chirped and this is probably due to the change of his responsibilities too. The world no longer sits on his shoulders, only kids are. And believe it or not, kids are most of the time way easier to deal with than problematic correspondences or flesh-eating zombies even for a trained professional such as himself. Occasionally Chris gets to play military with them as well, pulling ranks and commands on his little corporals and soldiers. The kids love their little role-play in class but above all, the one they truly love at this point is actually Chris.

"Fall in, troops!"

That's Chris' little replacement of the good old-fashioned 'good morning good afternoon' crap.

"Attention! Salute!" The class monitor brings his hand to his forehead and the rest follows attentively. His high-pitched child voice sounded so adorable Chris had to muster all of his willpower to not cackle during their drill.

"Rest, soldiers." Chris nodded in acknowledgement as soon as everyone saluted, despite rather sloppily especially amongst the girls because they couldn't stop grinning and giggling. Once settled down, the teacher turned to write the topic for the day's art lesson on the whiteboard while contemplating his delivery to the class. "Alright, soldiers. Are you ready?"

The crowd cheered and one bravely asked, "What are we going to do today, Mr. Redfield?"

"Today I will need all of you to use your choice of weapons to map out our base design, okay? You will need to draw one part of the school that you like the most. When everybody has completed the task, all of you will need to come up here and tell the class why is this your favorite spot and what do you enjoy doing there. Be sure to color them up good! The best drawing gets a promotion."

At the delightful sound of 'promotion', the recruits began buzzing among themselves, all eager to win as their teacher starts individually handing them clean pieces of papers to work with. When he went for the second round to distribute the art materials he brought, the class immediately quiet down as his students began to sketch their imaginations. Chris then retreated to his seat and started sketching a simple piece of his own as a prepared measure if any student were to ask what he had drawn too. Looking out to the window on his right, he never knew the afternoon sun could be this warm and welcoming before. It felt right… an unknown calmness bringing a smile to the corner of his lips.

A peaceful reset to his bruised life.

Minus the existence of Mr. A.

"Motherfuc—" Chris cussed at the screen the moment he read the loaded screen after he stepped home. When did this routine of plastering himself on the computer started? Quite frankly, he doesn't remember.

He had so regretted the start of that correspondence with Mr. A.

The teacher found himself unable to stop the electronic written war with him even though he was clearly on the losing end. Dropping his canvas carryall onto the couch, he slid onto his chair and immediately logged into his journal, well aware of the notification awaiting him. The routine has been looping as of late, and Chris didn't see any save point turning him around either. Once it started, the impact on every single word Mr. A used magnified, and that left a very frustrated Chris Redfield fighting to fend his stand and dignity.

So what is exactly biting him right now? Here's a recap of the most recent post:

/

**Date: August 04, 2010 Wednesday**  
**Time: 10:49PM (GMT +3:00)**  
**Mood: Peaceful on the outside, nasty on the inside**

Work has been treated me fairly well, Mr. A. Sometimes I think your concerns deeply reflect the actions of a stalker. I don't speak your fancy language and I certainly don't beat about the bush like you do. In fact, I don't like the way you talk at all.

Because of your interference, you do realize I have very much stopped writing anything that has been going on in my life, which was the main purpose of your audience and my journal. If so, why don't you move along and find someone else to harass in your golden throne? I am finally at ease with myself losing my past and now you just want to bring it all up like you actually know about it? Don't mock me.

If you want an answer knowing if I am finally fighting for what I want, though I don't know why you are so concerned with that, then I think I've found it. Clearly, it isn't you and we are not about to have a discussion on that.

So please, get on with your life. Go mess with someone else's life or something if you need a quick chatter. I don't exactly intend to deal with your bullshit. And since you like postscripts so much, there's one for you right at the bottom. Be sure to check it.

It's not like we are ever going to know each other in person. I don't even understand the point of us doing this. So you know what, I think this conversation is over. I hope, by the time I return from my vacation, you'll be done with me as well and be on your way.

Yours, (though I don't actually really mean 'yours')

Mr. Red.

P.S. If only you were less than a-tenth of the asshole you are, we probably don't have to end it this way.

/

What made Chris write that postscript he couldn't quite say. However it delivered the purpose of his message and that was good enough for him. He really did mean it too. If only he didn't have to be such an asshole, things could have probably taken a different path down. Making enemies isn't his forte but perhaps it is for Mr. A. There was something Mr. A possessed behind the screen, a weird kind of attraction, if not fatal, and it wasn't something the retired fighter would admit to. Then, there was Mr. A. Instead of accepting the concluding piece, he chose otherwise.

/

_Anonymous said on:  
**August 05, 2010 Thursday 02:17AM (GMT +3:00)**_

_An eager piece, Mr. Red. Bravo, bravo. However if I may, I'll have you know that I didn't know that we got on the wrong foot._

_I am not interfering with your life. I'm simply commenting on it. You could have shrug me off much as what you have been doing for months but you didn't continue. Eventually I got under your skin and your best defense is to blame me for it. Don't you suppose that sounds like a woman complaining about the man who had gotten her pregnant? You're pointing fingers when you actually play a substantial part in the situation._

_I may not be reading pieces about your life anymore, but your disposition has definitely intrigued me in more than one way. It's my way to understand more of you and through this angry little conversation we're having, it seems to be doing its job well. This is entirely not a harassment, I assure you._

_And if you realize, you're only saying you've found your supposed-motivation as a means to shut me up. I have no qualms with that but I'm not so certain if you want to deceive yourself. Not once have I deliberately brought up your past, or the assuming past, on my free will. It was brought into the picture because you mentioned it, you started it. How many times have you pointed your fingers at me for the course of your own action? I may have to start charging you if you continue to let this bad habit of yours go on._

_Besides, I do not understand why you would assume I do not have a life just because I read your journal. Are you uncomfortable with the slight attention of an outsider? I thought that was what you desired and might even fancy it. And for the fifth time, I am not messing with your life. Why would you accuse me of something such as that? I didn't think I could have the capacity with just mere words, or perhaps you are far more weak-willed than I thought you are._

_Don't get me wrong, this is not a friendly exchange but neither a hostile one. We're just two complete strangers who happen to stumble upon one another in the vast population of billions on the Internet. That happens to be the only uniqueness in my opinion, which I could remotely relate to as a piece of 'kismet' between us. But I suppose you'd probably never thought of it that way, would you? Don't start now. With the limited understanding you possess, you might not understand my point anyway. _

_Indeed, it is unlikely that we would ever see each other in person however, we must be clear of one thing though: who exactly is the asshole here between us? We should keep the tabs clear so that we at least know who should be the one apologizing for being the difficult party should it ever stir us up someday._

_P.S. How differently would you have wanted us to progress?_

/

Chris slapped his palms against the surface of his desk and pushed his body up from the chair, fuming at the returned contents. He hastily marched into the kitchen and grabbed an energy bar from the snack basket, eagerly munching away as his features crumpled to a state of anger. The words continued to cycle in his mind and he couldn't stop thinking about what Mr. A had said. How did that asshole manage to turn everything he said around in a blink of an eye? Better yet, why does he always have to suffer at the hands of the grammar polices? It does not bite him in the ass enough to bleed but rather to irritate the single shit out of him. The teacher munched harder at the wheat, venting the suppressed frustration in a child-like manner. Some habits just don't change.

Teeth gripping the remains of the almond-flavored bar, the teacher grabbed a hold of the cold pizza in his fridge and slapped it against the glass turntable inside the microwave appliance. His temper hadn't gone down one bit. He set the pizza to heat for about a minute while his mind continued conjuring a plan of attack. The simple victory he sought for was to completely render the other party speechless in his defense which in his case, seems like the hardest thing to do. So grabbing a glass of water dispensed from his kettle, he leaned against the kitchen counter and mused, questioning his need to triumph over the tyrant.

Was he really that much of a tyrant? Chris couldn't say.

He found himself recalling the dream earlier during lunch today. Then he tried looking at himself from a third-person's point of view to perceive his responses with Mr. A. Combining the details of everything together, it resulted in an unhealthy and twisted conclusion.

He is still thinking about the dead man.

If so, then how was he in any way, different from how he used to be in Portland?

Is he about to accuse Mr. A of being a self-centered, arrogant and critical person like the person he used to comment in the past?

Is he resenting Mr. A's similar knack for observation as that same person because it always sees right through him?

Is he… talking to Mr. A because it felt as though he was talking to—_ding!_

Literally 'saved by the bell' Chris Redfield. You almost walked right back into your own grave.

He should simply just not reply it. Ignore it. Chris' mind has the most logical solutions he could use to save himself from the humiliation but the other organ known as the heart decides otherwise. When it comes to matters of the heart, the teacher knows they are most irrational at all times. A good example was a time when he received a phone call at three in the morning from the RPD when he was already all scrunched up in his warm bed. The captain had called to ask him a few simple questions pertaining to the homicide incident they were working on but all the young male could recognize then was 'why the hell was the captain still working at three in the morning'? Frustrated, and obviously worried, he leaped out of bed, grabbed a jacket and headed out the door after answering those question quickly. Despite the heavy pour, the lack of his car keys and proper insulation in the autumn night, he managed to grab a couple of wraps from a supper stand nearby the station before he ran into the building, all drenched and shivering. He remembered the captain twitching an eyebrow as he stepped out of his office and watched him dripping water all over the station floor, grumbling at the young male for his sudden appearance which he almost mistook for a thief without intellect. His leader made him stayed where he was and returned with a dry towel to soak the rain up, face still rather composed as it portrayed. But Chris had known better; even under that indifference, he could tell the captain was somewhat worried but glad he came.

How was he that certain?

His captain was never good at hiding his expression without his sunglasses. His eyes gave it all away, every single time.

And you have just witnessed the power of heart over the mind.

Chris cringed at the over-a-decade-old memory, shuddering at his innocence then. Innocent, but blissful. They were times when he didn't really have a care in the world; the only focus he had was his job, his life and there was nothing else. When the captain became an addition to it, the warmth in his lonely nights, he thought his life was complete. Well although having a man to warm his bed wasn't exactly what he had planned, that man was beyond everything he could dream of. He held Chris' hand and guided him along his growing steps, silently giving him shelter so he could always fall back when he needed to. His subtle actions have always spoken much louder than the words he used since the latter could be as sharp as a blade. His captain was inclined to live on the principle 'actions speaks louder than words'. With that, Chris' affection grew deeper in his care, not for the need to define their connection, but simply the need to be with him.

Dammit. He still walked right back into that pitch-black void called a grave, didn't he?

Said male squinted his eyes, wearing a very typically irritable expression where his eyebrows frowned as well. He took the pizza out of the microwave and a beer from the fridge before settling in his living room. He then loaded a rented movie into the player and scrolled to where he last left off. Distraction. Chris needed that bit of distraction. He was always doing well with his life until Mr. A intruded. Him sticking his tongue on the frozen lamppost out of curiosity was what got him stuck in the first place. And right now, he was just letting history repeating itself. His ill curiosity has him at a spot where he knew he did not want to back off but neither did he had the courage to move forward either. He should perhaps give the journal a break like he mentioned, things might die down a little with his disappearance. The distance between Mr. A and him was exactly what he needed.

Or maybe, he just wanted proof to know that Mr. A isn't who he thinks he is.

Absentmindedly, he continued watching the movie until the credits rolled. He wasn't sure what the movie had actually been talking about, probably because he had his mind elsewhere half of the time. Picking up the trash, he headed back for the kitchen to dispose them off before he went to clean his hands by the sink. When there, he rested his forehead with a loud thud against the cabinet mounted from his kitchen walls, letting the cold water run through his hands as he forced a hidden tear back. His mind was blank as it could get, but it didn't stop the lament from gathering. Despite there was nothing going through his mind, he couldn't help but feel the loneliness in his apartment. Was it the fact that today's Thursday yet Yurkov wasn't here? Was it the lack of the figure whisking around his house, whispering kind endearments and treating him like the person he deserved to be treated missing at this moment? Did he miss Yurkov because he missed him or… Slowly backing into the living room, he switched the television off and stepped into his bathroom for a cold shower. He needed to cool that nonsense he just spent digging in his memory vault right off before it triggered another post-Redfield-epidemic.

Homework. The squad's homework would be a good start to deter himself from thinking the unnecessary. His little sunshines, the cheerleaders of his present life.

And boy, the sun sure colored him on a perfect Friday morning. The last day before the start of the anticipated summer break. Chris rose from his bed in high spirits, feeling the freshness of a new day, discarding the stale memories of yest—erm, what? He does not intend to relive the crap of yest—erm yeah you get the point. When done with making his bed, basically that just means lining his quilt in place, he decided that he would put on something prim and nice for the evening. A sudden spur kicked and he supposed he would make that trip to Simţire for dinner tonight. Someone would be more than pleased to see him there.

So a white-patterned maroon v-neck Henley with pale khaki pleated trousers will do for the day. Chris remembered the Henley was a gift from Claire during one of the Christmas' they had spent together. She always had an eye spotting clothes that would suit her brother charmingly, the elder sibling was sure. Putting on something as charismatic as that, the teacher was ready to impress ladies, if not men like Yurkov. He cleaned up really well, with a soft touch of wax to the hairstyle he had since two years back.

_Maybe I should consider dating._

Chris told himself so when he stood before a mirror, running his thumb and index across his scrubby chin. The wrinkles, the eye bags and aged skin were definitely not a sign of a desirable man. Marriage wasn't a topic he ever stepped into and now he still isn't ready to. Cohabiting sounded better, but that would be a selfish part of him to keep a woman by his side yet not giving her an official status to be his wife. Then, there is the choice of men. Well in spite same-sex marriage applicable, the teacher hasn't considered it. The ex-fighter had already spent more than a-third of his life being alone, he doesn't see the need to start filling up that gap now. However, if he doesn't start now, when does he intend to start it?

Let nature takes its course, they said.

He sees a perfect bachelor at the end of his road now. This man likes him. This man adores him. So, why exactly is he hesitating?

How long does he intend to live in the shadows of the past?

Crap. Oh what the hell, right?

Chris quickly shaved the stubble after he was done with his shower earlier. Right, a restart must happen. This is a brand new phase of the retired man. He's got a new place, a new environment, a new job and now he only needs a new start to the last missing piece of his broken past, a new hope.

This doesn't have to be official. It is just going to be a leeway he allows. The other party doesn't have to know it… until he feels ready to say it.

"Do you think you can drop me by the grocery stall on your way, Chris?" Modrina collected her tote from her seat as she watched her fellow colleague ready to leave for the day. Mr. Redfield returned a friendly gaze and nodded, pushing his chair in and signaled to depart before they should catch the sight of the principal, which was the last thing the man wanted to spoil his so-far-so-fabulous day. All the students have already left the school compound to start their holidays and right now, it was his turn to do the same too. Making way to his vehicle, the evening wind gently fluttered over his skin, a peaceful taste of solace creeping over his unnerving tension. Butterflies in his stomach. He quietly smiled to himself, it feels unbelievingly like junior high all over again.

"What are you smiling about?" The Croatian teacher curiously asked having noticed the teacher's bizarre high spirits for the entire day.

"Nothing. It's just the summer vacation. It's my first actually." He responded the question confidently, eyes staying still on the road while he hovered through the street.

"That's one of the benefits to be a teacher, I'd say."

Talking to Modrina is one of the things Chris really enjoys. She speaks as a friend would, a real civilian so to speak. No talks of wars, tactical plans, armory, weaponry, bio-data or whatsoever. Just a regular conversation or gossips between them such as student welfares and social talks at times, sometimes even the price increment of groceries. Looking at her reaction to the smallest things in society as compared to what he has faced that could possibly end the world in an apocalypse, Chris smiles at the insignificance to him despite the heated argument among others like her. It stilled a fraction of realism in him that didn't differentiate him from other humans leading a normal life, and he was at long last a part of it now. He continued listening to her marriage plans she had discussed with her fiancé, feeling happy for this wonderful lady beside him who has found a piece of her heaven. Having someone in her life was similar to an empty garden blooming full of roses; it was only beautiful because both existed at the same time same place. Chris wondered how would that feel if he had the same privilege as her. His mind continued to drift into the unknown future; a photograph of him and someone close sitting on the bed frame among the other pictures, a morning he wakes seeing the same person coming through his door to greet his morning, or simply the ability to wait in the evening for someone to come through his door. Just having the extra sound in his apartment chased the blues away. However he couldn't put two cents in the rough vision, he couldn't quite place a face on the invisible person in it.

"… -ris, just drop me here will do!" A voice drew him back to the surface.

He jammed hard on the brakes and the car came to an immediate stop, slightly throwing both teachers forward even with the moderate speed he kept up. Modrina clutched her tote, returning a look at Chris as she unbuckled the seatbelt strapped over her. Clearly the teacher has been distracted all this while, even though she spent the last few minutes chattering nonstop.

"Sorry 'bout that," Chris apologized for the impolite stop.

"I think I should be the one sorry for going on nonstop about my wedding. Are you feeling alright? You seem to be in a daze."

The male teacher nodded, smiling weakly, "Yeah. I'll see you when the holidays end."

"Already chasing me out for your date tonight?" Modrina laughed, ready to alight the vehicle. "She's one lucky girl, Mr. Redfield."

Chris watched her leave when she returned the car door to him, a loud slam locking it in place before she knocked on the window panel.

"Have a pleasant night, Chris. Enjoy it!" And inside Chris thought, what are the chances of this being a date wouldn't endanger him?

Not a single chance.

A pair of strong hands wrapped around his arms the moment he stepped foot into Simţire. It was barely a few minutes since he had parked his Wrangler at an open lot not too far away where he bumped into one of the evening staff from the restaurant. Together they paced towards the same destination, mostly being Chris listening to the staff talking about how busy his school life has been as well as the restaurant. The young chap was barely twenty he recalled. At twenty, he was well already in the Air Force where he pretty much concluded that would have been his career path before life decided otherwise. As they approached the building, the usual staff stood by the reception tending to awaiting customers in line before she saw the both of them from a distance. She hustled the staff to get changed and help out before throwing an arm around the teacher, briefly hugging the friendly face before the Russian bear caught sight of it from his kitchen, and kept tumbling out of his workstation.

That left him here, standing by the entrance of the restaurant when the chef clad in white charged straight at him, smiling in all glory as he threw his arms around him. The owner ignored the queue that was spreading like wildfire and pulled his angel in, quickly settling him at his usual table. Chris felt embarrassed by the gesture watching searing eyes glaring at him, unaware of his super VIP status granted by the chef himself. Nonetheless he was in, and once again at the balcony deck watching small puddles rippling the riverbed, the rain gently pouring as soon as he entered.

"What a pleasant surprise, darling! You're looking really wonderful tonight." Yurkov immediately noted the difference in appearance, pulling a chair after deciding to skive the next five minutes or so.

"Don't you have to be in the kitchen?" The teacher sighed, knowing his presence was clearly a distraction, if not disturbance.

"Can't I take a little break?"

"It's your restaurant, you have the say." Then the young chap from before swung by his table and poured him a glass of water, smiling warmly before he stepped away, not wanting the stare from an obvious company.

Yurkov spent the next five minutes endlessly blabbering about Paris and the things he intended to bring Chris to do. His itinerary was so full Chris started to worry if he might be deprive of sleep in between. But seeing the joy the chef plastered across his face, he knew he definitely made the right decision to join him. It was always a comforting sight to see the older man easily contended by his mere presence. It's not an everyday thing to find one capable of satisfying another in every way and yes, he has made a decision, hasn't he? No rush. No haste. The chef would be thrice as nervous as he is now if he is aware of his intentions. Just take it easy, Chris. Breathe, it's just like it has always been.

Let it all go.

No one is going to hurt you anymore.

"Darling?" The sound of the endearment brought Chris back to the reality at hand. As he tried to assure him being fine, he noticed the hand grabbing his with another laying over the back of his hand, gently patting and caressing his overly trained hand. While instinct almost made him pull his hand back, Chris wanted to stay through his determination to change, and that is to 'give it a shot'. So he tried to relax, though still completely rigid under his touch and left his hand there, right where it was, sandwiched between Yurkov's hands, whose eyes looked intently at him. The chef let his lower hand thread his fingers through the seams of Chris' and waited for a withdrawal reaction, but none came. His heart started pounding into his head, was this all part of his imagination?

"Yes?" Chris asked tenderly, eyes slightly averting from Yurkov's intense stare. Okay this felt way before junior high, maybe even middle school.

When the word 'yes' spread into his ears, Yurkov almost flushed a deep shade of red having over a dozen of possibilities running through his mind. Could it be that god has finally answered his prayers over the last few months? Has his longings been returned at long last? Is that 'yes' a yes to everything he has been praying for? He's right here, seated right next to his angel, holding his hand and feeling the heat they shared. This isn't a dream. He could feel a small fidget from the tensed muscles in his fingers. This isn't an illusion. He could reach out and hold him in his arms right now because he is right there. The hand he is holding is real. It's not him holding his own hand, pretending it is the hand belonging to his angel. Nervous, he gripped the hand slightly tighter, not wanting this moment to part. He savored the silent connection, for the lack of better words to tell Chris how much this meant to him. It isn't the time to think if this could be a real invitation to an unexplored future, just accepting the momentary affection is more than enough to satiate his lonely nights in the weeks to come.

But it won't be needed. There's Paris.

A holiday for two. Yurkov has plans of his own.

His spirits couldn't be lifted any higher ever since the few hours ago when he had the chance to hold Chris' hand again. Although it was short, it felt like an eternity then. Thoughts filled with cheese such as two mature men just staying together leading a simple headstart set his heart blooming with hopes and roses. Looking at Chris still seated at the balcony waiting for him, he realized he had lost all that courage and spunk he usually had around the American. Things are different now and he doesn't want to look like he is still fooling around. His course of pursuit has taken a complete change in direction and suddenly he is holding the one chance in his life he has been fighting for. That was how much Chris had meant to him since the first time he had laid eyes on the brunette. Those eyes captivated all of him. They had so much to tell and Yurkov wanted to be on the receiving end of it all, wanting to replace the sorrow hidden in those deep gray eyes. The silhouette of Chris basking under the moonlight cinched a twist in his heart, there was just something hauntingly beautiful about his battered soul making him want to embrace him and never let go. A singular trail of his cigarette smoke carried by the wind aged his company furthermore, the silence in the darkness sweeping away the need for words of arrival or courtesy. Uncontrollable, Yurkov wrapped his arms across Chris' chest from behind, nuzzling his chin along the nape of his neck as he pressed a cheek against his jaw. A dream alas, unexpected in his wildest dreams.

"Chris." He loses his usual playful tone, replacing it with the cords of a mature 45-year-old should be.

His recipient doesn't say a word, but the skin under his touch is still rigid and anxious.

It brought him back to the night when they were drunk and fuzzy, hugging and stripping in Chris' apartment when he got wind of his residential address. The heat and passion reliving this moment but now all shy and hidden by the fear to break out of its shell. They are sober now, it's no errant play. Everything they do now is of consent and free will.

Chris remembered this voice which he hadn't heard since the first time he met the Russian chef. The sultry velvety voice spilled a shiver hugging his lower back, rising up his vertebrate in a slow momentum. There is no inference; not the coyly British accent that once danced along the narrow of his cartilage, or the angsty exhale of a panicky desperation mixed with desire enfolding his lips. It's not the dry sensation of want but the wet texture of need, crawling all over his back as the weathered fingertips touched the softness of the Henley, torrid and muddy through the fabric. He let the digits dance over his body, trying to set his mind at ease to relish in the tenderness ensued, eyes closed as he slightly leaned into the warmth behind. He could learn to enjoy this. He could maybe also learn to… accept this.

"Chris…" Yurkov persisted. He wants—no, he needs a voice to tell him he's not dreaming.

"Shhh…" The younger male hushed, bringing a hand over his and gently caressed. It's true; there is no need for words now. He never thought he would understand this needlessness for words one day, since he used to be the one always bugging for evidences like Yurkov did—proofs such as words of affection or emotions, a kind of need that was required to atone the lack of certainty. Stepping into the shoes of his ex-lover, he slowly began to see light in a different position and at the same time perhaps, realized how wrong he had often believed the other never cared.

After a brief moment of endlessness, Chris stood from his chair as he watched the chef stood up straight, looking back at him. It was amusing; looking at Yurkov right now reminded him of his old self. So this was how the captain used to feel. _That prick._

"Let's go." Listening to the soft murmur from the teacher roused a small smile to his lips. He has spent most of the time ignoring what Chris says, it is only fair now to let the younger male have his fun. The upbeat deserves a change of pace now, and he can take his time as long as he still holds this chance. Preach patience. Patience certainly paid off, this time.

* * *

Anybody wanna try decoding "24747867437" what does it stand for?


	4. Paris I: Meet the Family

**Disclaimer: I don't own Capcom or Resident Evil.**

* * *

_So here we are, as promised, the next installment. Paris will cover two chapters, well it being the hype that I wanted to write because of the content I intend to put in the next chapter. Although I promised that the joviality will come back in this chapter, I'm sorry to say I had some other idea prompts and as a result, half of this preset went to sexual diversity. There are still funny bits, but I believe we all know that as we advance into the story, the humor will mostly be taken away by the highlights. However I do reassure that I will still incorporate it in my journey to whatever extent I can afford to._

_Before we begin, specifically I would like to make two warnings prior. This has to be clear, in case it surprises any reader in the bad way._

_First, the following (this and next) chapters will be conversational. There will be a lot of talking, lesser description than before. Sometimes there's so much talking that I virtually can't stand it but the show has to go on. _

_Next, this is very important: __there will be some amount of straight sexual innuendo in this chapter, nothing that goes all the way but I can't call it__ mild either. If you are not willing to read it, then do skip the last quarter of this fiction. It's just a couple of paragraphs but I still want to give a heads up. The woman involved, may she be liked or not, plays a significant amount of role in the story as far as it is concerned. Her involvement is essential, so just stick around with me if possible._

_So, shall we begin?_

* * *

_"Ladies and gentlemen, please ensure that your seat backs and tray tables are returned to their upright position. Make sure your seatbelt is fastened and all carryon luggages are stowed underneath the seat in front of you or in the overhead storage spaces. Please turn off all electronic devices until we have arrived at the gate. Thank you."_

Shaken, Chris was stirred from his sleep by his traveling companion with due information that they were arriving at the airport. He pressed the up arrow on the handle and let his chair reclined to its original position, shifting his body backwards into the velvet seat. It was not long before he finally realized that they were finally arriving at their destination, an innocent excitement welling up as he pressed one hand against the side window, looking at the clumps of cloud stacking over one another like gigantic cotton cocoons. Definitely something refreshing for Chris, you wouldn't expect him to see such beauty from the bulkhead of an airfreighter during his missions, wouldn't you? Another piece of rarity in the common life he had adopted so far, it felt good to be a regular civilian.

"You look like you've never taken a plane before," Yurkov chuckled, disregarding the announcement to lean his body into Chris' back, bringing two hands around the waist of the younger male, enjoying the view no more than he was enjoying it in his angel's company.

"Not a passenger plane," Chris replied shortly, eyes continuing their pursuit in the sky blue.

"What do you mean?" The Russian chef instinctively removed his hands, leaning back to give his companion some space should he decide to settle back onto his seat. He patiently waited for the story, eager to know more partaking this relationship role seriously.

Relationship? Yurkov was still not too sure if he could call it that.

Hesitating between truth and deceit, Chris wondered if he should tell the other male his part of the story. War stories, the bibliography of the war hero who put down the man he has ever loved so maddeningly. The contents could possibly pan out starting from his dismissal from the Air Force, into the birth of S.T.A.R.S. where he met the man who would change his life forever. Subsequent chapters can be pretty much self-explanatory, how he went all out suicidal to track Wesker being the human he is, taking on the superhuman his ex-captain had become. After which, how he set up the B.S.A.A. with the other ten founding members, including Jill. Oh Jill. The episodic drama just before he left the organization came to his mind again, that could be a grand finale to how he becomes a teacher now. What an anti-climax, this book would surely not sell Chris thinks.

And 'has' ever loved so maddeningly? Quite plausibly requires a need to make it past history too.

"It's nothing much. Are we arriving yet?" So he doesn't. It wasn't easy telling another person the things you have done in your present past life—especially when it involved things like holding a gun and killing things, things that were once human, humans that became things but still looking like the human they were.

Yurkov caught the hint. Perhaps it was still too early to be expecting a sharing session anytime soon.

"Yes, I believe we're about to—"

_"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Charles De Gaulle Airport. The local time is 15:37, three thirty-seven under Central European Time and the temperature is 21 degrees Celsius. Slight rainfall forecasted for the day. For your safety and comfort, please remain seated with your seatbelt fastened until the Captain has turned off the 'Fasten Seatbelt' sign. Please kindly check around your seat for any personal belongings you may have brought onboard and please use caution while opening the overhead bins in consideration to other passengers. On behalf of Meridiana Airlines and the entire crew, we'd like to thank you for joining us on this trip and we look forward to serving you on board again in the near future. Have a nice day."_

"Guess that completed my job." Yurkov sniggered, silly pouting at the chanced opportunity to answer his darling.

"What?" Chris chaffed, a genuine burst of laughter coming through as he rubbed his palm along the jaw line between the chef's ear and neck. The teasing came as naturally as it left, drawing a pleasant surprised look from the senior as Chris removed the seatbelt around his waist. It felt good not to hold back on those instances.

And you'd think Chris is misleading the chef. He actually doesn't know what he should be doing other than going with the flow. Not that Yurkov looks as though he minds it either; it is a win-win situation after all.

"Shall we?" Mumbling thoughts should be left after the vacation.

Wise choice.

Otherwise, the point to enjoy it would be futile, wouldn't it be?

Tediously, Chris queued at the immigration counter to have his passport stamped for clearance with the duffel bag in his hand. He seemed to be catching an audience from both genders with the frame he built and the face he has. No sooner came his turn to stand before a young officer in the booth, whose eyes never left his desk as he swept his hand across the counter for the visitor's passport. Chris politely handed it to him, still not warranting an eye contact until he supposed the male had opened his passport to reveal his photograph. The juvenile-looking _juene homme_ immediately snapped up from his desk, eyes admiring the charming features of the ex-serviceman, trailing the contours of his muscled features so much so that Chris felt as though he was stripped barren of his fashion in a striptease performance. Swallowing a hidden gasp, the petite boy batting an eye at him was no imagination of his.

Another official fact, the French are visual strippers. Classification: Public Appreciation.

He appeared to be taking too long for a simple procedure, Chris could hear the mild groans coming from the queue waiting behind him. Was he waiting for Chris to return an acknowledgment? A wink? A smile? The ex-serviceman couldn't think of the consequences for doing that, every vibe in his body told him it wasn't a smart choice. But hell, whatever gets it over and done with. The sooner he can leave, the sooner the better it is.

So he forced an awkward grin, more like a twitch as though sand caught in his eye, and casually leaned over the counter to banter, "Any err… problem?"

His officer brightened when he heard the husky voice moaning from his sexy visitor's lips. He'd be damned to finally have a suave brunette in his line, looking at him, talking to him with a voice that carried sweetness like nectar. Momentary daydreams sated the lewd thoughts he instantly conjured, somewhere between the lines of pulling the hunk forward to suck his face or over the desk, sucking somewhere else. _Ooh…_ that hit a spot below, the officer purred inwardly.

"_Non monsieur_, it's no problem." He replied enchantingly, the playful whispery type of voice used to hint something that would lean towards the direction of having a good night spent, not that Chris want to catch any of it.

In any fact, he was beginning to get impatient by the minute.

"Welcome to Paris and have a pleasant stay, _monsieur_." His passport finally came running back to his hand as he nodded in return, graciously accepting and thanking the welcome before he ran to join Yurkov who seemed to have waited for quite some time, plastered worries on his features.

"Something wrong?" Being concerned with Chris was just something Yurkov couldn't help himself to. Apart from the other concern which he has yet to break news to his companion yet.

"Nah…" Chris promised, flipping through the passport while they proceeded towards the exit when a tiny piece of paper slipped out of the pages. Yurkov helpfully picked it up to find a string of numbers and a name attached to it, intentions clear in this city he had grown up in.

"Dominico?" Yurkov eyed suspiciously at the younger male, "So that's what's taking you so long."

Chris rolled his eyes, stashing the important document away in his duffel bag as he glanced past the chef, not expecting himself to make any sort of unnecessary explanation in this scenario. Getting hit on wasn't as bad as to hit on someone else, the love in the Parisian air a little too strong for his taste. He just wanted to get out of the spotlight and hide in his hotel room, away from the raging pheromones sending all sorts of signals to him.

Correction in a bit, lust in the Parisian air. That's more like it.

"You jealous of a little pick up by someone else?" The teacher teased, slinging the carrier in his hand over his shoulder to his back, "You're in for trouble if you are."

Yurkov sighed to himself, he should have seen this coming if he had been so attracted to the American in the first place. However seeing the other enjoying himself as far as the trip had begun, that brought a smile to his face, though not enough to hide the apprehension he was experiencing for the news he was about to break. The result usually sits on extreme ends, and he is begging god to let it fall on the positive side today. He didn't make said arrangement for any special reasons other than one, and this one was on the request from someone whom he held very dearly.

Approaching the exit sign, this was his final chance before it blew openly unprepared, "Baby there's something I haven't tell—"

"_Xei'ei*!_ There's my baby boy!"

As soon as Chris stepped beyond the arrival gate, a motherly old woman ran up to them in healthy steps began throwing her arms around them both. It was quite embarrassing if you actually think about it, and even more so when it rendered all eyes from every direction possible as the old lady continued to chant something in French that felt like welcoming words to him. Yurkov was seen struggling in the union as well, shying from the intimacy as he portrayed a look that could only amount to being apologetic in his own way. The teacher shook his head, though he didn't know what was going on, it did feel nice to be received by another person.

"_M-mère…_! You're scaring Chris!" The withdrawal Yurkov made disperse the embrace, his mother grabbing a foothold of herself as she looked at her beautiful son once more, all grownup, successful and finally bringing someone to see her after his divorce.

Warmth being the nature in her blood, she held Chris' hands in hers and spoke endearingly, "So you're the one who has my son spinning at the talk of, hmm?"

"_Mère_!" Blush hit Yurkov's face hard. He would love to have a hole that he could dig into to bury his embarrassment this very moment. And Chris would volunteer to dig that hole too, the question wasn't something that he could answer as of now.

"Mother, you're putting them in a very difficult spot." In the distance came their savior's voice and when Yurkov sourced for it, he threw his big arms around the appealing girl who returned the gesture with equal passion. It had been so long since they had seen each other, this reunion being one that he had waited for a long time. Chris understood the longing, often did he feel the same way with Claire when he returned from home on shore leaves but they weren't the type to be too openly hugging in each other in all tears and words of missing. A dinner usually sufficed all they had to say in a gentle expression. So looking at it, he felt terrible being a passive brother most of the time, other than the occasional exception at Sally's.

"How's my lovely baby Shurah!?"

"Baby is overstatement _'Xei**_, I'm just a few years younger than you. But I've been great, just came back from the United States."

All this touching reunion brought a tear to the overly passionate chef uncontrollably; it truly had been a long time since the family came together like this. Chris was just awkwardly thinking if his presence might have ruined a potential heartwarming family reunion on scene, but he knew he would be just as helpless as he was if left alone in this foreign city. Keeping his thoughts to himself, he watched the trio chattering amongst themselves, though not long before Yurkov received him into their circle, dying to introduce him to the rest of his family members.

"_Mère_, Shurah, meet Chris. He's the one I've been telling you about. Chris, this is my mother and my lovely younger sister, Sashurah."

That's… not exactly a good sign in Chris' opinion. An inner voice told him that it would be in his best interest not to find out what the chef had been telling his family about him. You would never know if he might have already been introduced as someone beyond the level he was right now. Better to have it surface on its own before making any rash decisions.

Calmly, Chris put his hand out to acknowledge the family, "Chris Redfield, nice to meet you."

So this is what you call meeting the family.

Or accepting the unprecedented fate.

Either which, it didn't feel comfortable for the visitor to stay quietly watching the family ramble on for the entire car journey back to their hotel. Except, Chris didn't think the building they were approaching looked like a hotel.

So it appeared that even the hotel is overlooked in Chris' perspective for now he stood before a serviced apartment that was too grand for its appearance. It was antique, narrow and bricked. An old structure in the elegance of its proud age as one of the astounding buildings standing in the vicinity it seemed. The teacher silently prayed that this would also be one of the little narrow architectures around the city. Pulling his arms close to his body, he took quick steps up to the fitting corridor, a green wooden door with a gold-colored doorknob in contrast. Shurah stepped up to unlock the gate and behold, Chris knew he would never see a second apartment as beautiful as this in his life ever.

"Like what you see?" Yurkov jested as he closed the door behind them, noticing the dumbfounded face Chris portrayed.

"What on earth made you leave Paris if you had a place like this?"

"My ex-wife," the voice so dull that it made Chris want to instantaneously erase the stupid question he spoke earlier. He never quite seemed to remember Yurkov has had a wife before.

"Okay, where's my room?" Not his best shot at changing the topic but nonetheless an attempt at it. What he didn't see after his question was the sly grin on Shurah's face, hidden behind the apple she was chewing in her face.

"We have it prepared, come," Chris apparently noticed the directness she possessed was closer to the American side that he knew of as compared to Yurkov's French passion. She probably has had a higher exposure to it more than her family did. She did mention that she had just returned from the States, didn't she? Blindly following her lead, weaving through the elegant gold and red set up in the living room, the duo, with Yurkov trailing behind as the third, proceeded to the narrow lounge that led them into the bedroom corridor. Green doors, the family must have really liked this Castleton green very much.

In addition, packing light was definitely a plus noticing how much his frame would have its effect in this city. As of now, he could be just dealing with moving around, but Chris hoped that this would be the end of it, honestly.

Shurah opened one of the doors furthest from the living room, a healthy color mixture of ruby and isabelline defining the room that again reminded the teacher that he was in Russian turf, where red and green were likely a must in every household. Fulvous settled in small fashion to embellish small details such as the rope suspending the falling curtains or the lamp on the birch table. It was really subtle the way it is, since ruby dominated half of the room in bold areas such as the duvet on the bed or the drapes by the window, as well as the cushion on the seat by the table. Red on the bed was just daring in Chris' point of view, not even for the wedding night of two intoxicated people who could be just dying to get in each other's pants.

This reminded him of the Valentines in 1997, the spread of carmine over Wesker's bed as the older male prepared him for the night of his life. He woke up barely feeling his lower half amidst the aches and bruises wielded around his hips, but he also never forgot the tenderness shown after being half-paralyzed like that.

Stop. It. Right. There. Good.

Back to the room, Yurkov stood aside smiling, just happy that the arrangement didn't send Chris on the next flight back to Moldova because he had given the 'okay' sign to stay over at his place or be in his company. His guest watched Shurah pulling the blinds apart to allow the sun come into the room, lighting it instantly with the color pigments available. The color taste told him that this must have been his mother's masterpiece. She never gets tired of red.

"This is the guestroom. You may use it as you please…" She's trailing. Chris was sure of it so he waited for her to finish her sentence, even though he had a bad feeling about it anyways, "…although I think my brother would love to have you in his room no other way."

"S-Shurah!" This is the second time Chris caught Yurkov blushing.

Whereas he, pretended to have choked on something because he used coughing to hide the embarrassment the lady placed him in. She was such a deviant, for then she waltzed out of the room, indirectly insisting to let the men have their time to sort things out. She knows something, Chris believed, if not she wouldn't be instigating something the size of Antarctica.

"I'm so terribly sorry about my sister, darling," the Russian immediately tightened his lips, noting for a fact that the endearment would give Chris the disillusion of him blabbering false ground on their relationship. Steadying, he changed his terminology, sighing at the challenges he faced, "I mean, Chris. She's just really supportive of me going for someone else, she didn't like the ex-sister-in-law very much."

"I can see that."

Dropping the duffel bag on the floor, Chris rested his rear on the bed before plopping his back onto the softness. The corner of his eye caught Yurkov closing the door, which no sooner he found the man walking over to his bed, crawling over him as they stared into each other at pointblank. Heartbeat rising, Chris watched Yurkov advancing to him, the waxed Pompadour occasionally flicking a memory of the shimmy blond who once had the similar hairstyle too. He stilled a breath, nervous as the chef reached for his hands, pinning them to the side of his body as he let out a needy sigh, wanting nothing but to taste the fullness of his lips. He didn't struggle away from the Russian, nor did he try to run. After doing so for the past week, he finally found the courage to let the passion carry him through with whatever the other had in mind. It had to happen at some point, convincingly, the start of this vacation felt like the perfect opportunity to let it unfold.

Anxious, to have Chris in his arms like that, all waiting and expecting, Yurkov took a deep breath for the long awaited moment he craved. He was so close, so close that he could smell the distinct fragrance that Chris used, a kind of fougere leathery scent that often took him off the edge indulging. Inching a little more, he could feel the warm breath escaping from Chris' lips on his face, the gasps short and nervous like he was, soft and throaty. When he saw the beautiful sight of the man beneath him closing his eyes, he felt a short burst of desperation down his groin as he licked his lips, parting them slightly to match them over his angel's all in due time. He was not going to miss this moment for the world.

"Chris…" he whimpered his name once more. God his odor was so addictive, it was breaking the resilience he put up down.

"Xei'ei, I need you to—"

Would you like your mother to jump in on your romantic moment with your baby? If you don't, then clearly Xei'ei doesn't either.

"Oh my…" His mother held her hands to her mouth, hiding the shocking awe she experienced to have walked in on her son's private moment with his… let's say his special one. Catching on the hint in a snap, she retreated out of the room, pulling the door with her as she shut it tight. Placing her palm to her chest to calm herself down, the sight of her son bending over another man sprang to her mind again, tinting her dimples red with embarrassing thoughts. Never in her wildest dreams had she thought her guest would be on the bottom… He seemed so strong, hulky and by the gods so attractively manly! Oh my, what was she thinking! The scenarios slipped into her mind again, the proximity between her son and the handsome brunette—no interruption for at least another thirty minutes or so.

Boys… are _fast_ with this, aren't they?

"That… was awkward," and Chris was right. All the effort with the buildup, tension, atmospheric moment just… _snap!_ Gone, just like that.

Yurkov sighed regretfully, moving off the bed to let his guest sit up. Chris looked away when he did so, hand reaching for the duffel bag sitting on the floor as he shuffled through his items inside, staying out of eye contact. The other counterpart understood, it wasn't as though they were announced lovers to behave affectionately so to be reminded of that sheer fact after being awoken like that, was reminder as good as a slap to the face. Perhaps they should give each other some space to let the awkwardness dissipate, like maybe he should go unpack his luggage, call up his organizer to confirm the tour details or tend to his mother's need… _oh mère!_

"I'll go see to my mother's needs. Why don't you settle down for now? I'll see you when you're done." Closing the door behind him, Yurkov started wondering what he would have to do to get the mood right back to where it was again.

Whereas Chris fought the persuasion to have dinner with the family. He didn't think it was going to be easy and by the gods, he was right.

Dinner was as hard as it could get with the kind of looks Yurkov's mother couldn't stop throwing him. Thank god his father was out of town attending to business, Chris didn't think he was going to survive the scrutinize from three people. Yes, three. Don't forget the devious Shurah. Every time he happened to glance past her, he swore she was smiling to herself, apart those obvious you-know-what-you-did looks she threw at her brother as well.

That's why he needed a break. Like this. On the balcony with a cigarette in his hand.

The gourmet tour would take up the full day tomorrow and the day after. After that, he was told there would be a masquerade on the third. Yurkov had left the house to meet up with his organizer to finalize the details.

Yurkov was absolutely jovial at the third one.

But being like this, imposing on someone else's family, was a little more comforting than he had expected it to be. Hearing stories about Xei'ei being when he was still—well, Xei'ei certainly made him laughed hard. He never remembered having a chance to mingle with his family. He spent most parts of his life alone with Claire, working with the need to provide for his baby sister, that being the one thing he knew he would have to agree with Xei'ei because he knew they would do whatever it takes to protect their precious sister. It wasn't good taste to remember the incompleteness of the broken family he had, not a single chance to redeem the wrong or make up for lost time. Things just gone like that, in the blink of an eye.

Chris shivered in the night, too much time spent thinking about the irreversible.

"You're a little quiet throughout dinner," the deep feminine voice startled him, but immediately dismissed when the lady joined him on the decks, with her personal flavor in her hand as well.

"You didn't strike me as someone who smokes," Chris stroke up what he would like to call it as a conversation, watching the lady inhaling the same poison between her lips. If there was anything he missed, he sure didn't miss the freshness of pale skin lined over her ring finger in the tanned complexion she possessed. Its component missing.

She followed Chris' eyes to her fingers, surprised by the observation her brother's guest made before she took the cigarette out of her lips to exhale, "I'm newly divorced, if you're wondering."

Chris kept his silence, not a pleasant thing to be asking how the progression of it came about.

"And if there's anything you should strike me, you're definitely not the kind of person I foresee my _frère_ falling for… or neither would he be of attraction to you," so this was where the interrogation would start. Chris had almost started to believe no one was going to see through his façade.

"So you're the smart one in the family." Smokers tend to mingle easily with each other than they could with any other sociable bystanders. It's a behavioral thing, trust me.

"'Xei's delicate. He's always emotional, but never once to this extent. He's completely falling head over heels for you, Chris."

A sour wince crept up to the teacher's face. Yurkov was moving too fast while he was just strolling, taking his time to experience what life had to offer him. There was no way he was going to double up his pace for this relationship, or in Chris' term—exclusive friendship, because his answer would be no. He wasn't ready, and right now all he wanted was to have something bubbly for once in his life, the feeling of someone who wasn't thinking beyond what they had right now and sailing the tide.

This became another discovery he made, that this was how his ex-captain used to feel when he pushed his feelings onto him. The desperation to maintain what they had in spite of the urgency from him, Chris never thought it would be so difficult to handle.

So based on the immature needs he had then where Wesker had still chosen to stay with him, did he just realize the biggest discovery in his entire life?

Bullshit. Chris told himself so; he supposed he was giving the deceased too much credit afterlife.

"So please, if you're not serious with him, don't give him false hope." Shurah's words cooked his guilt well. She had a point. When was he ever someone who went fooling around?

Or why wasn't she the person who was interested in him? The smart one, the one who wasn't going all out on the emotional part other than to enjoy the ride? Someone whom he could perhaps lay back and become friends with benefits with? Things would have gone differently… or Chris supposed he could try to make it happen.

What the hell was he thinking?

"Maybe you can do something about it," Chris quirked a debatable reply, one that he was trying to steer clear of the hot zones. She should be smart enough to realize who was the willing party in their picture, he supposed.

"Don't get me wrong. You're very attractive. If you're just a friend of my brother's, I would have tackled you onto the bed and have my way with you," she grinned, a drop-dead sexy gorgeous dirty type of grin that would really let her have her way with any man who could be faintly interested in her. She's a veteran at this, this flirting game, Chris was aware. But he was just rocking his boat, gliding through the waters making surveillance, just watching. There was nothing to stir up if nothing was still. Anybody can play this game. "But I know I'm not what you're looking for."

The intensity in her eyes stopped Chris in his tracks. They said women are intuitive, don't they?

"I beg your pardon?" so he feigned ignorance, old wounds were better left unspoken.

"Oh honey," she was just good with the American patronizing, "you can't fool me."

She felt like a goddamn sphinx, or maybe worse, the reincarnation of Wesker. Chris felt like he had been drawn back to a place where he never wanted to be again, rationality speaking on behalf that's for sure. The picture perfect room where the enchanting male devoured him and taught him all the pleasures of embracing another male. No longer was he sure of his emotional needs after that. Emotional? He had been dying to go back there since forever. Since his skin had turned cold, since his heart had frozen in time.

Dabbing the rest of her stub, she flicked the used compound out of the patio as it disappeared in the night. She moved up to Chris and pulled her hands around the bigger man, fingers caressing his muscular arms and hands, the softness of her skin brushing over his warm flesh. The guest looked down at her, not avoiding the subtle valleys of her cleavage basking in all glory, feeling her voluptuous breasts pressed against his chest. She squirmed under his frame, her hips digging into the hardness of his pelvic in slow rhythm. Her fingers danced over his, dragging his pads over the curvature of her luscious body to her lower back, sitting on the hilt of her full ass. Chris let his hand stay on, teasing the crack between her rear over the chiffon dress she was wearing. She looked pleased, sounded even more so with eager perhaps, rolling their hips together in slow fashion as she explored the rest of his contours sensuously, drinking the manly scent under his diminished cologne. Not many women were as upfront as she was, coming onto him like it was naturally to be done like so. Although he didn't comment on it, he sure liked the boldness.

And since he was unable to guess what devious plot she had in mind, he let her do as she pleased, a part of his mind unable to relinquish the similarity she had with the ex-captain he coupled with. Any rash thoughts might force him into a frenzy, consequences disastrous in its optimized capacity.

"You know…" she coaxed, the softness of her touches melting his defenses as the reality became blurry the way it was. Tiptoeing, she pulled Chris' face close to her lips, whispering dangerously low in his ear with short gasps of need, "my ex-husband is nothing but all praises with the ways I pleasure him."

The words left a cold trail down Chris' back, was she really going to ignore her brother and openly invite him to fuck her thoroughly through the night? What happened to the sibling love?

Boldly, well played in Chris' demise, she slid one hand over the lower fabric bulging. Running her digits over the semi-hardness, she palmed the thickness while letting her fingers define the circumference of it.

She smiled at that.

Impatient, she slipped her hand into the casual rayon pants Chris wore, stretching the elastic band before she dipped into it, making quick work to feel the warm shaft between her fingers. The smoothness of his boxer brief accentuated the sensitivity of his waking hardness, as well as the piquant nubs protruding through the thin material she wore, pushing against his hard pecs. Chris didn't resist her foreplay, one hand raising to cup her breast, massaging around her nubs in gentle strokes, eliciting a needy rasp from her lips. Desperate, her covered fingers hunted for the band of his underwear, scratching his skin while she blindly dug her nails around to find a spot where she could dip into. Chris hissed under her administrations, the mild pain electrifying as he fondled her flesh harder from above and below, his grip tightened imprinting mild marks over her untanned complexion. Then he gasped, feeling her hitching his member in her hand, the hot shaft rolling in her palm and she teasingly moved his skin downwards, stroking lovingly.

When he looked back at her, she left a proud smirk playing around her lips, cooing sweetly, "Wouldn't you like to know what I can do for you with this intelligent mouth of mine?"

She's damn right. Smart mouth she's got there. He would love to stuff his cock in her mouth if she says another word more, except he wouldn't because he won't hurt Yurkov any further than this, nor would he allow her to hurt him all the more.

"I'm turning in the night," Chris stopped to close their twisted warp adventure, taking his hands away from her body as he stepped back. He wasn't sure how did things escalated to this in the first place. Retreating would be fair play for both since the game was clearly going out of hand. The purpose absolutely misplaced. Or rather, what was the purpose at all?

A test? A trial? Chris didn't want to know.

"Sure thing," surprisingly, she was quick to agree, setting her guest free of her entanglement in her interrogation. She hid an insidious grin when Chris turned his back at her, forming a daring advice in her mind before putting it to words. That would divulge too much, much ahead of _his_ plan, but it shouldn't be too harmful to give a little heads up from the way things were advancing now. Clearly the boy was delusional, investing his emotions elsewhere was not solving anything to begin with. And accepting any boat that came forth to take him away in the tide was just making matters worse.

He has to understand the simplest fact of all: his lifeboat has never been anything else other than _him_.

"Do enjoy the masquerade thoroughly. Though if I were you, I'd pick the mask that would show all of me, in the passion of the mysterious night."

"Err… yeah, sure. I'll keep that in mind." Granted, he had no idea what that advice was for but he gathered the idea that it would be better if he had just taken it like so. His top priority would be to get out of there as fast as he could. "Good night."

"_Bonne nuit, le piège_."

* * *

_* Xei'ei is Yurkov's child name for Alexei used by his mother.  
** 'Xei is the nickname Sashurah uses on Yurkov._

And alas, everybody's favorite villain is finally going to make his debut in the next chapter.


	5. Paris II: Masquerade

**Disclaimer: I don't own Capcom or Resident Evil.**

* * *

_Yes! I got this up before Christmas! I so wanted to share this moment I wrote for this fiction with all of you whom are still following me in this! I just wanna say a big thank you for coming this far with me despite how nonsensical, rubbish, ill-plotted, random, strange and etc etc this story has been going. Thank you, I mean really, a big thank you to all of you._

_So basically, the spur of this fiction actually came from this idea in this chapter. (It's something like the producer of RE6 wanted to see Leon and Chris fighting so that was how RE6 was built around it, similarly that's what happened for my fiction too) I've have this very random idea of something like this in my head for a long time now, building and plotting this story to this stage until finally I get to share this idea with you guys. Let me know how you think about it! I've always felt the mystery of masquerades are so hauntingly beautiful._

_Enjoy and above all, Merry Christmas to everyone of you out there!_

* * *

Golden, ivory and a tinge of black lurking from the French windows decorated around the room. Sure, he did mention that there was going to be a masquerade on the last day of the event but never in Chris' wildest dream he expected it to be in such scale of extravagance. How popular was Yurkov again?

This had been the ninth person coming up to grace his hand, cheeks or lips or whatever the hell the French had practiced for such things. Chris stood quietly behind the celebrity sipping another tall glass of champagne, Cristal or Dom Perignon or something like that he remembered the waiter asking him. So naturally, he just chose whichever that was easier to pronounce. The results came back pretty edifying, for now he at least knows one name for champagnes that tastes really opinionatedly good to use for any other major events he might participate in the future. Though truth would be he wish he wouldn't have to at all.

And this bow tie around his neck was really suffocating, no thanks to Shurah for this.

That vicarious woman had been most helpful when Yurkov requested her to take Chris out on his behalf to shop for some decent clothing for the event today. They came to one particular boutique, a shop filled with men's tuxedos, coats and jackets, leathered shoes and virtually any and everything that could polish a vagrant into a shining star. Given the casual familiarity Shurah flirted around with the male staff attending to her, Chris would like to assume that the family had often frequented the shop in light of their couture.

He wasn't sure if he was there for two or three hours, but what he did know was that it was going to be the first and last experience he would want to have shopping with Shurah ever again. He forgot the number of shirts and pants he had put on, the amount of designs he had to try for one tone and other accessories like ties and bow ties he had them constantly on and off. At one point he remembered putting on a white vest and a tux coat above a taupe layered frilled shirt and that was when he finally drew the line. While here he was thinking that masquerades were supposed to be party dresses and funny costumes, he supposed the rich associates would still prefer themselves to be in the mystery of the night clad in their formal classy appearances.

Which explains why he had to go shopping because he didn't do suits, suits were just something not made for him.

Suits were made for aristocrats, bureaucrats or people he would like to think as sophisticated, witty, charming, attractive and intimidating and… plainly, like what _Wesker _is.

He didn't stop his trail of thoughts this time. He ought to be ashamed for the events that had happened two nights ago on the balcony with Shurah. The aftermath wasn't going to simply just go away since a bodily reaction wouldn't have simmered on its own without some actions done to it. Chris stopped in between his sips when his mind went back to the scene, he really felt ashamed of it now.

_Curled up under the ruby sheets, Chris lied still on the bed, mind rewinding back and forth between the conversation and foreplay he had with Shurah just moments ago. Why he had offered her that chance of opportunity was still unknown, but the ache in his pants now seemed to be the priority he needed to take care of right now. _

_Slipping his pants and briefs down, he wrapped a hand around the hardness, soothing the ache while he ran his hand up and down along it, mind trying to find some form of accompanying imagery to help him ride the release out. He tried thinking about Shurah's body, the soft curvatures he laid his hands on as well as the tender peaks he cupped and squeezed. Her low purrs how they rang in his ears, hands fondling the attention she sought from his and how beautiful she had looked under the moonlight. Chris was enthralled, the hand below working faster as he panted softly against the mattress. _

_But he wasn't getting off. He couldn't, something didn't feel right and it just stopped coming. Chris panicked a little, that sort of ache wasn't any man's joke._

_He tried jerking faster, putting more strength into it but it didn't seem to be working. In fact, he was losing that sense of exhilaration, that peak heightening his urges as it gradually pulled downhill. All would have been good if only that could ease the hardness along with it but it didn't. Maybe a cold shower should do the trick…_

… _until a muzzy figure started forming at the back of his mind. _

_As the silhouette approached him, a pair of hands caught him from behind over his hands, gently massaging the veins popping underside of his shaft as Chris whimpered at the touches. Those hands guided his own, something about the mysteriousness of the person behind exciting Chris further in the depths of his lust-filled mind. He felt the heat building within him, the painful stiffness returning with a vengeance for he found himself leaning into the body behind him. _

_Despite how hard he tried not to let his voice out any further than he was already doing, Chris surrendered to the experienced caresses as the man behind continued pumping it lovingly, a hand leaving as he slipped his fingers through his ass crack, circling his entrance slowly. Chris withheld a moan escaping, sucking a deep breath in for he could almost smell that familiar woody scent of eau de toilette mixed with some heavy cigarette smoke stench. Another tight draw upwards along his shaft slipped between his fingers with the man and this time, Chris could even see the alabaster skin glowing with mild punctures of veins popping beneath. His moves were so smooth that Chris found himself melting in it, a hand pressing his face into the sheets once more as those hands continued to cradle his cock with such tenderness. Chris remembered these touches, in the back of his mind he knew he had tasted them somewhere a long time ago._

_The movements were repeating faster now, Chris huffed hoarsely into the sheet as he salivated from the side of his mouth, eyes shut tightly from the satisfaction. Hiding his face in wanton lust, Chris felt the body behind him pressed over him as the fingers playing with his entrance leaves, earning a displeased groan while they snaked back to his legs, sliding up and down along his inner thighs. _

_He felt so close right now, ready spill all over until a voice whispered into his ear._

"…_Christopher… …"_

"—Chris! Did I bore you badly with this event?"

Peeping through the eye slots on his mask, Chris recognized the party mask Yurkov wore while they were on their way to the ball. Well a good thing he picked one big enough to cover the blushes on the high points of his cheeks while he discarded the humiliation in his mind, bringing his reality back to the ballroom despite the displeasure it reek.

Oh did he mention that the room was actually the largest ballroom of the most prestigious hotel in all of Paris? Apparently that was what Yurkov told him while they were chauffeured to their destination.

"No you didn't. I just didn't know you were that big of a celebrity here," his voice was flat and neutral, one that Yurkov couldn't help but feel a pinch that he wasn't even slightly disappointed that he wasn't by his side. But as it stands, he knew Chris had always been an independent person, needless for the attention and concern that he probably would have deemed redundant to begin with. So he decided he would leave this tiny hole as it was, returning to the game face he had put up all night with.

"There are bigger celebrities around here. Surely I would like to introduce you to all of them if you would let me." Yurkov persuaded, a small ego yearning to present his partner to all those in his presence. The charming male who could be his, if things really worked out like he believed so.

"I'm fine without. I'm just here to enjoy the free champagnes," and that brought a little mirth in Yurkov's voice.

"Oh darling…"

"Why, isn't this the great Alexei Yurkov?! The talented Russian chef who has led the life of reclusion a couple of years back?"

In Chris' defense, that deafening crude appearance didn't warrant his respect. It was lying in a gray tone, somewhere between being genuine and ridiculing that ticked an unsettling bone in him. However, Yurkov being Yurkov, he wasn't one to catch the hick thus it wasn't smart play to deck the cards. Chris finished his third glass of champagne, taking his own sweet time so he didn't appear brutish embarrassing Yurkov from it. He watched the plump guy snorting at the celebrity, pulling his old accomplishments that were extravagantly far apart from what he had accomplished current day. Reclusion was the word he ever so often use to bite him in the ass as well. The Russian chef only continued to be polite on his ground, occasionally throwing a laugh that could only be too faux to be believed of its sincerity.

Then it happened, the thing that Chris tried to avoid the whole time.

"Who is your fine companion? I'm sure surprised that your wife decided not to join you this time round. Perhaps she was afraid she couldn't shine under the shimmy lights of our bedazzlement after being locked away by you? You really should have brought her out into the attention more often, Yurkov!"

_Okay that's it_, Chris decided. The chummy guy should really learn how to shut the hell up.

"Oh, that was not the reason why she didn't—" Yurkov blatantly tried to explain, barely catching the bold sarcasm until Chris stepped into the picture, having decided to defend his presence.

"Chris Redfield. I'm sorry if his wife didn't show up tonight because he had to bring me to see all the snobbish rich people that existed in such social events. And boy he was sure right about that."

Yurkov stared in disbelief, was that… Chris _defending him_?

"Bold statement, young man," the bureaucrat reiterated, "as bold as that mask proudly wears itself."

Chris smiled under it, flashing a satisfying grin to humble the guest, "it is my pleasure."

The conversation led to a pool of fire and ice, the cynic raised beyond the roofs could settle for as long as they continued chatting, leaving poor Yurkov in between their conversations feeling lost and worried. Chris not being a master of words was clearly his disadvantage here, but he also knew he had guts that most celebrities wouldn't have dared to gamble with so he chose his game fairly, utilizing his directness every one too often to shut the snob up. That triggered a small laughter from Yurkov every time he succeeded in it once, which in turn increased the fury housing inside the guest. He gradually lost interest in his use of words, finding it absolutely ridiculous when he tried so hard coming up with sophisticated words that could beautify him while there Chris was retaliating with crude, snidely direct remarks at him.

"I'm sure only the military has good use for a man who can barely speak properly, at least most of the time he wouldn't be needed to speak at all."

"That's where you are wrong. Apparently we need to shout all the time, unruly, loudly and impolitely whenever we are training. Would you like a demonstration?"

The bureaucratic backed away, clearly losing this verbal war which it wasn't supposed to happen in the first place.

"I'm afraid my time is up. It has been a pleasure meeting you, Mister…?"

"Redfield, mister…. Oh you know what, that didn't really matter to me in the first place."

He cursed inwardly, how this mongrel dare humiliate him like so, "Yes. I will see you around, Mr. Red…field."

Smirking beneath his mask, Chris saw Yurkov looking at him, a gut feeling telling him he seemed surprised at his behavior. Well come to think of it, Chris supposed he did go a little out of hand when he tried to make his stand, but it wasn't his fault trying to defend himself since the other guy wanted to humiliate either of them. It was a matter of defense, fully self-triggering in times of need.

"My, I don't think you should've done that, Chris."

Well Wesker would have sure praised him that he did well. At least he could phrase himself better than he did fifteen years ago perhaps. Although he wasn't exactly hoping Yurkov would do likewise, his disapproval felt like he had just shitted on Chris' face while he tried to help him.

Or maybe not help him, then.

"Your choice," he stated matter-of-factly, moving towards a nearing waiter for another glass of champagne before another stranger waltzed into his lane, stopping him in his track. Yurkov watched intently from his spot, that man stumbling into his path was no accident of his.

While Chris was feeling irritated by the intrusion, the subtle black feathers on the right side of the stranger's mask caught his attention immediately after. Silver-faced, sequined with black decorations around the frame and golden embroidery around the eye slots matched with black beads and lace. The lace marred from the eyes to the hilt of the nose extended, a sultry mysterious touch that made Chris consistently on the hunt to search for the eyes behind it, but was unfortunate he couldn't.

The mysterious man stopped doing likewise, apparently observing Chris in similar fashion—simple black coat with matching trousers, gray gradient on a fitting vest and white dress shirt. That made the red tie he used stood out in the monochrome, as much as the red mask did when he lost a moment to that distraction. Fascinated, he picked up the glass from the serving tray of the waiter beside him, carefully handing it to the man watching him.

"Is it not in your common sense that staring is impolite?"

Chris held a breath when he heard the voice, _too close_. "Sorry I— I didn't mean to…."

"Here, have a glass of champagne. It'll calm you down."

_That voice._ There was no way there could be another person on Earth with this same voice. Chris was absolutely certain, yet not too either considering the fact that the person he speculated in his mind was the man he killed. He was dead. He died in that pool of lava. What Chris was thinking was insane, and preposterous so to speak. But the doubts were provoking him, questioning the thoughts he had if they were even true at all. There was only one way in his struggle to find out perhaps, if only he could get rid of that damned mask to prove him right.

"I believe champagne is to be drank cold—"

"Darling, are you okay?" The interaction had proven too much for Yurkov to bear, which was a little short on his end but he felt danger emitting from the man. So quickly he aided Chris by his side, taking him by his shoulder as a symbol to back the other man away.

"Yeah I'm fine… I'm just…"

"Nervous?" The man in the silver mask continued, putting the glass away as another usher came by.

Chris looked at him again, unable to shake that voice off his mind for the need to hear it again. To verify it, clarify it and be sure that he probably was losing his mind if he had been who he thought he was.

However, Yurkov wasn't one who was going to buy whatever Chris had in his mind even he told him, not that the ex-serviceman was intending to tell him. Tugging the younger male, he tried pulling Chris away but he wouldn't bulge, his face still staring at the other man in such fascination was unnerving to him. He tried again and this time, even lady luck left him far behind when another associate came up to take him away as the music started.

"Yurkov, we need you by the table. The chancellor's here," said the man who had organized Yurkov's trip throughout the event.

"But I need to—I mean, Chris, please come with me."

"I'm afraid your companion is talking to you, …Chris?" Oh that voice, Chris felt the need to hear more of it as each second passed by.

Chris sparkled at the introduction, his reaction to the familiar address a tad too obvious that he was sensitive to the name being used or rather, the voice calling his name. Comparing what Yurkov's gathering could offer to the conversation he was having with the anonymous gentleman, Chris was willing to gamble the latter for the simplest fact that his curiosity prevailed in this instance. He needed to find out if this was God's idea of a prank on him or if God's miracles simply knew no bounds.

And _anonymous_? That word certainly struck a bell inside.

"Err… go ahead, I'll be fine here alone. I wouldn't know what you guys are talking about anyway."

"If you are worried, rest assured that I would be accompanying your companion till you return, Mr. Yurkov."

Intentional or not, that was exactly what Yurkov didn't want from the stranger. His help was too much for Yurkov to seek. But since Chris made word, there was nothing else he supposed he could do either. He wasn't going to risk spoiling their evening together for some random stranger that he shouldn't even be concerned about. He should trust Chris' judgment this much, he must.

"Are you sure?" The concern lingering in his voice was his last bet.

"Yeah… please, go on." But Chris apparently didn't respond to it.

Pulled away, Yurkov let his eyes continued watching the two men while he was taken through the dance floor to the chancellor's table at a secluded spot. When Chris realized the chef was gone, his attention immediately returned to the mysterious gentleman before him, whom he hadn't left like he thought he should have already. He was just standing there sipping the champagne in his hand, emptying the last of it as the smooth liquid flowed down his throat, a sight Chris couldn't tear the hallucinations away forming in his head. Was that a strand of blonde hair peeking from the side of the feathers?

Great, how far was he intending to take himself to this time?

"Staring must have been a hobby of yours."

Chris jolts back to reality, this was completely going out of control. "Uh, sorry about that. Let me take my leave now, sorry for all this—"

However before he could finish his sentence, he felt a clasp around his wrist and his vision pulled towards the circling dance floor. To his horror or surprise, one that he couldn't decide as of now, the silhouette of that anonymous stranger led him to the center of the room and Chris could now assure himself that what he saw earlier wasn't a figment of his imagination.

His hair was neatly pulled back—straight, tidy, short and most definitely _blonde_.

Then when he snapped out of his self-musings again, he found himself joining the rhythm of dance, following the graceful steps moving left then right as he moved under the guidance of his new companion. The silver mask watched him intently, looking at nothing but him while they indulged in the elegant flow, the embarrassing talk of two men dancing inexistent because they were in Paris, the hometown of love. Truth mostly because, there were other male couplings joining the twirling of steps as well, professionally engaging in their private conversations of perhaps something passionate or bluntly foremost adultery.

Chris looked away hesitantly, a warming memory filling his mind by the last dance he last shared with another man, his ex-captain.

Then observing his lead in the hymns of violins and piano, he couldn't help but feel the resemblance this man shared with the man in his dreams.

And he needed it so bad, so badly that he knew he was about to lose his mind if this man wasn't who he thought he was.

"You seem comfortable sharing a dance with another man? Perhaps I am not your first?" The voice entering his ears awakened him again, drawing his attention back to the beautiful façade.

"Err…" Chris stalled, blush creeping up his face but thankfully behind the mask again, "Perhaps…"

"I suppose it must have been with the gentleman from before then? He seems rather obsessed with you."

"No," he was quick to clear the doubts, "it's… it's not him…" Minding the fact that he couldn't stop trailing his lines, the anxiety seemed to start seizing his thoughts as well.

The floor began to fill and so the blonde pulled Chris closer to him, the hand previously on his shoulder now moved down to the arch of his back as the ex-serviceman was forced to put his hand over the other's shoulder. Their other hands interlocked in politeness, Chris' palm rested over his while he held it gently. Strangely enough, Chris didn't feel the least awkward in their embrace, but what was strange however, was the fact that every inch of their union felt like déjà vu… like the dance he once shared with Wesker in his apartment on one very peculiarly romantic night.

"Are you seeing him?" And as usual, the resonating voice brought him out of his reminiscence once again.

"What?" Chris was dumbfounded.

The stranger paused, which by now Chris knew he could no longer differentiate whether this man was real or not, before he paraphrased, "Are you seeing him… or anyone else?"

Chris felt his heart quickened for a split moment; this was his chance to set the lines clear.

But he couldn't. He couldn't bring himself to tell the world that Yurkov was someone special to him because he knew that would be a lie. Perhaps he also knew that he could never have accepted Yurkov because he longed for someone else to fill his night. If that was really what he believed, why for he gave him the opportunity that he could make this fairytale true. Nothing was going to change if Chris didn't take the first step, no matter how much devotion the chef could give. The Russian could have never replaced someone etched so deeply in his heart.

And right now, this scar was bleeding with hope all over again.

"N-no… I'm not."

A forbidden kind of hope that could drive him up the wall and into the type of insane depression he had tasted when he first left Kijuju.

"So, is it safe to assume that you are single and available then?"

Chris could almost hear a suggestive smirk behind the sentence, though he had to admit he was curious why the stranger would be interested in him, "Why do you ask?"

"Because I think it's only fair that I know where I am placing my bets on."

That surprised Chris, a hell lot if he might say. Was that an open confession of his advancement?

As the direction of their conversation turned, so did Chris' insecurities for he find himself subconsciously following the flow of the stranger, other than to satisfy his need to follow the security he sought in his voice.

"You're a gambler?"

"I prefer to call myself a risk-taker," he corrected, coyly Chris would like to think, "And I only like to make bets for things that are worth it."

Chris could feel himself turning red, this man could sure make him bash like a juvenile.

"And how would you know if they're worth it?" Despite he tried defending himself, he supposed the creak in his voice might have let himself away.

"I see it," he paused in the midst of his steps, turning Chris half a circle around him before he changed his posture as well, continuing the dance in the opposite direction with the rest of the dance council, "and I know what I want and what is going to be worth my time and attention."

It was then Chris noticed those intense leers his companion threw at him that made him squirm in it, averting because he could felt those eyes staring right through him, under every piece of clothing he wore for this event. Chris felt almost bare under his gaze, but despite shying away from it, his feet wouldn't budge for he knew how much he wanted those eyes to be looking at nothing but him. And they read his mind.

In a sudden glimpse, Chris felt his body involuntarily moved, pressed hard against the body of the stranger holding him. It felt weird at once yet so right the second he fused into it. Their bodies felt so similar that even the brief toughness was as similar as his mind remembered it had been. Nervously, Chris looked up once more and immediately shuddered; he swore those orbs hiding behind the mask were almost glowing red.

"Red… is red your favorite color?"

A hand gently brushed along the matte red of Chris' mask, then over the painted black dried petals sewed on the sides. Then caressing the underside of the thin stretch of faux fur on the mask, Chris shivered for the pads of the blonde's ring and pinky slid alongside his face, slow and gentle. There was marring of black paint over the redness, a symbol of the imperfection Chris believed he stood for when Shurah chose it. Scratches flossed over the contours of his mask, standing as perhaps the most unsightly piece of accessory in this garden of beauty party. Scarred, disfigured and inelegant, this was what Chris saw in his heart—a picture of him battle-bruised, lost and broken. It had meant to be a kill zone, stopping anyone trying to trespass into the no zone. Pretentious participants wouldn't have given a rat's hat about his existence and all he had wanted was to blend into the background, or ostracized beyond reach. But whatever he thought his mask could be, it led this man to him.

A man of undoubted perfection, seeking the imperfection that he is.

"No," Chris whimpered, tears almost brimming. "I don't… like it."

"Why not?" With tenderness, the blonde cupped his face gently, "Red suits you. It becomes of you."

Shaking his face away, the steps swaying him around brought his attention back to his companion, the similarity striking harder with each moment, "Red reminds me of the blood I've shed…"

The stranger kept his silence, waiting for the other to continue as the rhythm slowly entered into its peak and the dance broke in haste. He led him with ease, following the pace between the ladies and their partners while his eyes never broke the intensity they both shared.

"…and the people whom have shed theirs for me."

"If they did, they did it out of the affection they have for you." Clasping tightly to Chris' waist, the stranger demanded Chris' attention as he yanked him close again, "You're a symbol of rigor and fire, a man who has had it all because everyone was willing to give without an ounce of return. Red is your color, even if you like it or not, and like the hesitation pooling between your eyes ever since you first looked at me, you will forever live in the shadows if you don't give up the façade you try to hide in front of me. So, if it isn't _Mr. Red_, what is it that you truly want to hide from me?"

Chris forestalled a breath, what had just happened?

The music started to fade out as the floor stilled its activity. Lights dimming lowly, the clatter of heels slowly weeded out of melodious tunes. Everyone came to a halt and so did Chris and his companion though the other's hands never left their places, holding Chris in his thoughts at the sound of the address.

_Mr. Red._

Who was this guy again?

"I…" Voice soft, Chris stared through his mask with hopeful eyes, heart wishing for the impossible that this man could be the one he had longed after since he had locked himself up.

Breathing deeply, he tried to confess his dark feelings, "I…" but it was so painful to hope for the impossible.

So the stranger tried to help, hands leaving the comfortable contacts on his body as they reached for his face, holding him with his palms as his fingers pressed against the mask, sliding the accessory upwards very very slowly. Chris didn't resist it, and his eyes couldn't pull away either, for he was completely mesmerized by those small reddened orbs he felt so comfortable knowing that they were what he saw now.

Under a spell that he wouldn't want to wake up from.

Under an illusion that he could sleep for an eternity in.

"_Wes…"_ his voice weak and feeble, almost inaudible but nonetheless caught by the stranger's exceptional sense of hearing. Now completely unsheathing the mask above Chris' eyes, the stranger leaned towards him in the dimness as every inch he moved closer, the tears in Chris' eyes pushed itself out of the corners of his eyes for his lids slowly shut close.

Then warmth followed suit. Thin lips covered over his and he brought his own lips into the union, closing the gap in between his shivering. The hands on his face felt so loving while they brushed away his tears falling.

Chris sank deep into the kiss, unsure if the scent of cigarette lingering between belonged to him or the other.

His hands searched for embrace, holding the sides of the blonde's torso in fear for he continued quivering in their public affection. He would give anything to submit to this helpless hoping.

There couldn't be a second person on this planet who could kiss him like he could, like the way his ex-captain could.

This was beyond insane. But for this insanity, Chris would continue to drown without redemption. He would suffer all over again just to know it could be real.

"_Wes…"_ Chris longed so foolishly, _"… tell me you're him…."_

Breathing heavily, the stranger stopped his gentle nipping when he felt Chris muttered between their kisses, hearing his faint cries of pleading. A certain emotion twitched inside as he hesitated to speak, though softly then when he decided to.

"_Chris…"_

A party cheer and then a flick of the lights, brightness restored in the hall as a majestic cake was pushed to the center of the dance floor with a tower of empty champagne glasses. Watching everybody stepping back, Chris did so sensibly, to only find the mysterious companion had disappeared as soon as the dark had vanished from the room. He frantically searched the room, walking through the crowds of polished people in their gold and ivories, nothing that was black and silver on their faces. But Chris wouldn't give up, he circled the room once more, twice more and perhaps even so much more than he could remember, the silhouette had disappeared mysteriously as he came.

Broken, Chris leaned away from the attention, standing far back leaning against a column that was cold and distant. There was more silence than the hearty merriment gathered, but he felt safer in the shadows. He touched his lips once more, the straying warmth ensured it wasn't just a crazy dream.

But as much as he could convince his mind it happened, the emotional turmoil his heart sang through was sailing through crashing tides of the ocean and all he wanted was to go back to his room and hide beneath the sheets. Once the warmth left his body, the cold restored was torture, like needles piercing through his body or dehydration splitting his flesh. Chris never once felt as weak as he did now, the reality sitting on his shoulders serving as a wakeup call that perhaps he should have just gave up hoping for the impossible.

How many more times was he going to break his heart like that?

So as he gathered to leave, he headed for the unattended entrance where to his bewilderment, on the empty reception table laid the silvery mask embroidered in black with its ribbon scattered over the surface. He inched towards the table, picking up the intricate accessory when he noticed a piece of folded note sitting obediently beneath it. Carefully opening it, he read the short footnote quickly, though dropping it immediately when he was done with it in pieces of gasps and bliss.

Tears filled his eyes once more as he pressed his fingers alongside of his nose with the accessory, palms closed together like a prayer made as he whimpered quietly in the soulless lobby.

/

_I assure you this won't be the last of our encounter, Chris._

— _Mr. __A.__,__ W._

/

* * *

He sure knows how to catch Chris' heart every time the boy feels like giving up, doesn't he?


	6. A Man like Virus

**Disclaimer: I don't own Capcom or Resident Evil.**

* * *

_I took so long to update this. So long that I'm really sorry for that! It's just been a busy month of February and March for me thus far and January I was busy updating two other fictions and in February I was clearing some one-shots and trying to take a break in the midst of the local festival as well. And I've been getting nudges regarding this, I'm very sorry I took this long! And during the downtime between job changing, I'm glad to say I finally finished this and I spend a lot of time mindmapping Chris' thoughts on this. It was almost painful to do it and I'm often lost in track._

_If there is anything unclear here, it should likely be explained in the next chapter. But if any one of you need any clarifications, feel free to approach me! I guess that's almost all I have to say? The rest should be self-explanatory in this chapter and I hope you'll enjoy these last few chapters!_

* * *

The blueberry bagels tasted different today. Rather, they tasted oddly different each time Chris went down to get them. That included the other foods he had been sustaining. Even microwaveable quick meals tasted far apart from each packet in the same box. His palate seemed to have died on him. He wasn't sick or having argument with a random stranger. Work had been pleasant as well.

Life has been very good.

Although, Chris couldn't shake the feeling of something amiss in his life ever since he returned from Paris.

Hanging out with Yurkov had become a weekly routine. A dating routine, if they could consider be dating, though nothing beyond cuddling or kissing in both homes, and almost no stayovers involved at all. It looked ridiculous on all levels when Chris thought about it. They looked as though they were playing cherry youths who wanted to wait for _that special night_ to give themselves to each other when they're men who have only what little remains of their so-called youth and innocence. Yet there was unwillingness on Chris' part to cross that line, not for the _roles_ they would play in bed but rather just the inability to let Yurkov slip his hands past his crotch. Or his lips.

So maybe it wasn't just cuddling and kissing after all. Depending on which part they were _cuddling_ or _kissing_ perhaps.

But none of these kisses could relight that passion from within once more.

The man behind the mask set his emotions on fire. Chris could still vaguely remember the taste of his lips and feel the warmth of his kiss. Such uncanny resemblance or even the outrageous possibility to think that man could have been Wesker. He found the strength to say his name ever since that encounter. The thought of the blonde didn't hurt as much as they used to anymore for no apparent reason; at least, not with reasons that had an explanation. They were groundless as of now and he seemed to be contended with the idea of it.

He basically stopped behaving like an imbecile at the thought of him. The man at the masquerade gave him second chance to face his demons.

But perhaps the demon was the masked man himself.

A sharp buzz later the microwave stopped heating as Chris poured the ready made pasta sauce over a bowl of vegetable flavored fettuccine. Wesker had always insisted the green ones if they had to settle with pasta for dinner. He got a big box of them just a couple of days ago by the supermarket, along with some other coincidental Wesker-preferred food. It wasn't preplanned in his defense, he swore on his name.

He just didn't know how they got into his cart because he didn't realize it until he was home.

Right, that was how exactly it happened. The specific brand of an Italian coffee, mineral water and butter fishing themselves out of the racks and into his trolley, as well as the woody scented candles—

_Feuilles de Tabac._

Chris froze. It was the same scent used in Wesker's apartment.

_Their love nest._

He immediately shoved everything into the cabinets hanging from the ceiling on that very day. He even stuck a piece of wide tape over its doors and wrote "KEEP OUT" in caps as it was right now. He must have been possessed on that grocery shopping. There was no way his brain was chanting the blonde's name the entire time while he mindlessly went on to sweep everything off the rack like he used to do back in the States. There simply was no possibility that he could've—

Right, enough of the grocery talks. The more he talked about it, the more he would be relating his lifestyle back to when Wesker was around.

Next, enough of the name Wesker.

It had already been six weeks since Paris. He was progressing with Yurkov. Why was Wesker, a dead man, even in the picture in the first place?

Tomorrow is Saturday. It's date night.

_Maybe I should really just get on with it and sleep with him. That'll put these stupid thoughts out of business._

_Or maybe I should just put a bullet in my head thinking of using that as a solution._

The sound of his cell phone shook him. A cold bowl of fettuccine sitting in his hand for the last five minutes waiting to be devoured by him.

"Chris, this is Sashurah." Well that certainly came as a—wait, how did she get his number?

"Hey," but no time for small suspicions like that, "how'd you been?"

"Good, but listen. I need your help."

"I'm all ears." This had better be something good.

"I've a guest arriving at Moldova tomorrow and I've told her a friend of mine will be taking her around."

At least, it better not sucked. "Then why aren't you here?"

"I've got things to attend to in Paris and I've kidnapped 'Xei overnight to help me with it."

"Yurkov… is on his way to Paris? Like right now?" Did the world change just because he was stuck daydreaming in the kitchen for the last five minutes?

"Yes, so I've only got you to help me. It won't be difficult. You just need to take her around for the day and make sure she gets back to the airport to catch her late night flight to Paris. Please, Chris."

_Wow, I've got the smart girl begging. _Not exactly the right time to be thinking about trivialities however, it still sounded suspicious. But since she asked nicely and it wasn't something too bothersome, it could help kill date night a little bit since the other leading celebrity won't be in town.

"Alright, just this time." And he shouldn't sound too helpful about it.

"Wonderful, sexy. I'll send you the details of her flight shortly."

Which wasn't very helpful if they were meant to be details. The definition of details is minutiae, where precision is supposed to be helpful in the identification. She couldn't have been more helpful when she texted him that one liner as his key.

_Look for a tall lady cloaked in all black. Dressed in Arabian._

She… should be an eye catcher, Chris believed. Not many women were seen in a Niqāb as long as he had been here. Hopefully, the airport didn't bring a dozen in today. Considering that, what if the airport did usher a group of Arabian women into the country today? How was he going to identify the right person in the crowd? Was she going to recognize him instead?

Then the thought of Shurah having a picture of him caused him to shiver, unless Yurkov had been distributing all of his details to everyone he knows.

He stood by the arrival hall with a cup of coffee in hand, impatiently sipping the drink as he watched new visitors arriving. They're all casually dressed, no one seemed to fit the bill. After five minutes of observing, he was having second thoughts. There was an ill atmosphere plaguing him and if the lady wasn't going to turn up any sooner, he might just text the vicious woman that he wanted out.

A veil of black passed him before he had the chance to decide.

Chris ran up to the person. Placing a hand to her shoulders, the person clothed in black turned around. It must be her.

Otherwise, who in their right mind would forgo their rights to casual dressing and wrap themselves up like this in the midst of summer?

Right. She's not even talking. Not when Chris held her up in the middle of nowhere, cue 'airport being considerably nowhere now, because he didn't even know how to address her in his awkwardness.

"Miss… err miss, …I don't have a name I'm sorry," Chris inwardly cursed, "I'm here on behalf of Ms. Sashurah."

Her eyes blinked once, yet she wasn't talking. Perhaps she didn't speak English. Perhaps she didn't even understand English. _Thanks for the heads up, …woman._

"Sashurah Yurkov?" Chris tried again, hands gesturing this time, "The Russian lady… short bobbed hair… about this height…"

And finally! A response from the Arabian woman! She nodded once at Chris' failed description of the Russian woman, which she then frantically searched through her purse to retrieve a photo of Sashurah herself. Good, they were at least getting somewhere for crying out loud alas.

Chris pointed out that he knew the woman in the picture, with all gestures and maybe a hint of confusion but he eventually successfully got the tourist to believe what he said. She proceeded to show her trust by standing next to the teacher, quizzically looking at the older man with the only thing he could make out of her expression. So he led her to the nearest exit, where his Wrangler awaited at the parking lot to begin the trip around town.

The time is 14:49. There is about sixhours to kill.

Quite frankly, this was Chris' first encounter with someone who didn't speak his language. Rather, the world's language.

Next, she wasn't short. She could be 5'9" as far as he could tell. Her eyes are pastel green, which he didn't think was a common color for Middle-Eastern people. Nonetheless, what good would it do for him if he tried asking her? It would possibly end up in another round of "Guess What I'm Saying!"

He opened the passenger door for the lady, who gently folded her robe under before she seated in. The flash of her skin on the back of her hand was unusually pale, pale for her ethnicity. Another baffling fact considerably, yet not one enough to set Chris off to question the curiosity.

After thirty minutes on the highway, he arrived at a restaurant that served Arabian food. Labors of his research in advance he would say, just a little preparation done to make his guest as comfortable as she could be. Shurah's guest. If there was one thing about Chris anyone should know, he didn't like to be unprepared for anything. And if there was a reason anyone should know why he would practice such practice, then there was the case of one Albert Wesker who had trained him to always be prepared. The ex-captain had always made preparations for the littlest things, from the first day their invisible courtship happened till the day they broke up. Yes, broke up.

Chris had always believed the breakup was planned all along.

He was too good at his game, so much so that the breakup couldn't have been a coincidence. Nothing is coincidental when it involved Wesker.

A bump to his arm woke Chris. The lady gently nudged it when he stopped at the entrance, leaving the waiter in hesitation. He smiled and apologized for his stupor, quickly following the young man into the restaurant where they were seated in a booth. He let the lady take her time with the menu while he uncontrollably stared at her skin yet again. Thankfully this time however, a phone call arrived just in time to stop his curiosity from growing. He dismissed himself from the seat and stepped out to take the call.

"Darling! Thank heavens I finally got you!" Well, who do we have here? Chris smiled to himself at the panicked voice.

"Relax, I'm right here. Shurah told me she got you back to Paris to do something for her."

"Yes, I don't understand her at all!" Yurkov sounded like he was about to go off, a rare thing most certainly, "She rushed me overnight just to decide some marriage menus for a distinguish guest of hers! I mean, can't I do that over the phone or with some pictures? It's our date night!"

Sometimes, Chris felt like he was dating an overly-smitten kid when he started to fuss about the slightest thing. Sure Yurkov definitely knew he wasn't someone who would be upset over something like this but to see the chef reacting this way was beyond hysterical, it's almost endearing.

"Date night is every Saturday night. There's not only one Saturday in a year. But that's indeed odd coming from Shurah…"

However, Yurkov did bring a clear point up. The reason to send Yurkov packing for Paris was rather invalid, wasn't it? The loopholes were presented clearer than before and Chris' reflexes were reacting. Yet there were no reasons.

"So what are you doing now?" Chris prompted.

"Right now I'm just on my way to the hotel to meet Shurah. It appears that she specifically wanted me to meet her client to affirm the decision."

"I see. Perhaps it really is a very important client of hers that's why she needed you."

"Oh please! Stop defending her, darling!" Yes, he was exasperated now. "If it was really such an important guest I would've seen or at least heard of his name! The name card she handed me was the name of some random guy by the name of A. Wesker."

Chris paused. He held his breath.

"Say… that again…?"

"I said, the name is A. Wesker. But I've never even heard of this guy!"

"Marriage… menus?" Piecing up the pieces seemed to be the hardest thing to do right now but Chris was giving his best shot, starting with the fact that Wesker was now… officially… _alive_?

And… about to get _married_…?

"Yes, at the Hotel Plaza Athénée. At least he's got good taste to pick that hotel."

If there was one thing Chris could do right now, he would take the next flight to Paris and demand the blonde to tell him what was going on. But he couldn't. He was stuck here, with Shurah's guest, receiving news that the man he loved was actually alive and somehow getting married in Paris.

_Mr. A., W._

The man he met in Paris. It had been six weeks since then. Chris remembered every exchange they made, and even how foolishly he had been pinning on false hopes. But were they false hopes now? The fact that Wesker was now alive and ready to wed someone else was driving Chris to the wall. The man he waltzed with and confessed to that very night, and he who reciprocated his feelings without an ounce of hesitation, was that a dream? Or worse yet, could that have been a joke to him?

Chris couldn't think. He couldn't _stop_ thinking.

He wanted to know more, the hand holding his cell phone shaking with anger.

"Do you… do you have any idea who he was marrying…?" He tried keeping his voice strong, but the heart only grew weaker.

Yet the neutrality in Yurkov's voice only pierced him more. But who was he to blame? Yurkov didn't know Albert Wesker. He also didn't know that asshole was almost the cause for global Armageddon some time ago because B.S.A.A. tightlipped every loose end in the case. And more importantly, Yurkov didn't know his history with Wesker.

"I don't. But maybe Shurah does. You seem… very interested in this Wesker guy."

Red light. Chris knew he couldn't probe any further if he didn't want Yurkov to find out.

"Oh, I was just curious how big of a hotshot this guy was supposed to be to have you personally fly over to decide his menu." Chris croaked a laugh at the end, hoping it would tie his speech up neatly.

"You're right! I will see how much of a celebrity this guy is then!" Yurkov laughed with the merriment, apparently not detecting any strange vibes from Chris.

But Chris was straggling. His mind only pictured Wesker in a white tuxedo about to marry an unknown woman in Paris. And his heart only reminded him the feeling of being betrayed yet again. Why did he let himself fall for the same old trick over and over again?

"I gotta go, Yurkov. I've got a guest with me and I've stepped out for far too long."

There was disappointment in the lover boy's voice evidently, but he knew it was pointless. So holding his stride, he held his longings to himself, "Okay darling… I'll miss you."

Chris smiled, genuinely this time. "I know. Take care of yourself."

When he went back to the booth, the lady carefully observed him with her silent green eyes. Chris was quiet. He looked through the menu and picked something in an instant. His eyes were soulless. They were lost.

She wasn't the least bothered by it. Stealthily, she slid her cell phone out of her clutch and punched the keys slowly.

_He's distraught_, she typed. And that wasn't only during the lunch but throughout the rest of the journey as well.

Chris took her around to the few highlights in town. She looked disinterested for a fact, or maybe he didn't know how to read her facial expressions under the veil across her face. She looked at the few monuments in the park they visited; right now being at the Nativity Cathedral, looking at monument erected in the names of Simion Murafa, Alexei Mateevici and Andrei Hodorogea.

She seemed to be in touch with these historical figures but she didn't say a word, probably because Chris wouldn't understand her in the first place to begin with. She touched the stone, boring holes at the names as she knelt before it. Then she touched her forehead to her heart, eyes closed as though whispering a prayer in their names. He looked away hastily, not sure if he should be staring in case he could be interrupting her prayers. Culture was his weakest if he wasn't mistaken, like he was stranded in a field of landmines. One false move could set everything in flames.

When she was done, she picked herself up from the ground. Chris took note of that, flicking the cigarette to the ground before he stubbed it out. Then he realized they were at a church, and that her ethnicity could've clashed with the holy grounds they stood. Inwardly cursing himself, that was the first landmine he stepped on.

"I'm sorry," he apologized, not really bothering with the fact if she could understand what he was saying now. "I should've realized you're not affiliated with the religion."

Blinking once, then twice, she stared blankly at him. Then she saw Chris bumping his side of his hand to his forehead and realized the gesture looked like he was apologizing. She didn't know what it was for, but she just shook her head.

Maybe culture wasn't such a smart idea after all. Chris decided to hit town.

Women couldn't resist shopping, could they?

Not for this one sadly. Weaving through the shophouses, nothing seemed to catch her eye. This was the point where Chris realized that he was one of those people who was bound to meet difficult people in his life. First it was his superior in the Air Force, then there was Wesker, and then there was Jessica and followed on by top brass who dispatched him to Africa. Lastly, there was Jill.

This shouldn't fazed him at all the more he thought about it, though there was a discerning factor in the equation right now. One catalyst that would change everything.

At this point, Chris wasn't going to be bothered about the fact that he could possibly have kissed his ex-captain at the ball. Hell, he had done worse things with Wesker if he really wanted to talk about it. It was the fact that the bastard was alive all this time and he didn't know about it. Or rather, the B.S.A.A. wasn't informed about it. He had a gut feeling about it, even behind all the other missions he had gone out on.

Wesker was a man who was prepared for anything. It was no surprise if he could've prepared his own death either. Chris didn't believed in miracles around Wesker.

So what happened in the volcano, was it part of Wesker's plans all along?

He mentioned about dispersing the virus in the air and his visionary to change the world. _Six billion cries of agony_ he said, and it was enough reason for Chris to stop Wesker once and for all. There was no way Wesker could have planned the plane under disturbance to crash land into the volcano. He turned to Uroboros because _he didn't have a choice_ then, Chris fluctuated his viral level when he gave him the second injection. That was the plan he and Sheva had in mind when he did it. That was the reason why Wesker lost his temper when the virus malfunctioned inside him, or overreacted otherwise.

That was how they won it, wasn't it?

Alas he saw her entering a shop selling silver shop. Not the regular silverware shop though, this one sold accessories and jewellery. He stepped in after her, not a minute leaving his thoughts.

However, what if he reversed the situation? Was there even the slightest remote possibility that Wesker planned his own death to escape the eyes of the world? So that he could continue his test underground so no one was there to stop him this time until he perfected the bioweapon?

Shivering, Chris forced himself to stop his thoughts. Was he thinking too much, or was he simply seeing beyond what others were willing to see?

_Think logically, Chris. How in the world is that possible? Wesker may be intelligent, but he is no prophet. He certainly couldn't have seen his own demise, yet alone prepare his dues to face it._

However this wasn't the worse case scenario when he thought about it. Despite discovering Wesker still lived in this world, who was there willing to believe what he said? He was _kicked out_ of the B.S.A.A., did he not forget? They told him to take a break because he was being too paranoid about Wesker's existence, didn't they? Wrong, the exact words they used then were _mentally unstable_.

_Look who's talking now._

Claire told him to set up the journal thing, didn't she? Now that he thought about it, did she suggest this because Jill was the one who told her to tell him to? Chris never did once told Claire about his problem with Jill in the B.S.A.A., did he? So how could she have known the problems he was facing and suggested him to do things that should benefit him in her light?

And… how did Wesker catch up with his journal immediately after that? Neither Jill nor Claire found out about it, so how did the villain?

Wrecking his brains at the absurdity of things, the thin strand of faith was hanging weak. His one sister whom he loved the most now presented the possibility whereby she could've been in cahoots with his best friend who just kicked him out of the organization they worked so hard for their entire lives. Did that mean that Claire believed what Jill said about him? Was this a sign that Claire thinks that Chris was being mentally unstable after his decade-long episode with Wesker as well?

And here's the biggest twist Chris could ever fathom—Wesker came into the picture after the whole world just distrusted him.

Mr. A. disappeared from his journal the moment he stopped writing it. There were no prompts or nudges to locate him despite the fact that Chris logged into the medium everyday. He just didn't have the words to pen out his thoughts, not since the episode in Paris left him wavering between the chance that Wesker could still be alive and the present relationship he had with Yurkov. The dates became a relief and a burden at the same time after that. He couldn't shake his thoughts off his ex-captain, and it was plaguing him like a virus.

_Wesker is a virus._

"Sir… sir?"

Recovering from his whiteout, Chris noticed the shopkeeper calling to him as the lady held a piece of accessory retrieved from the display case. She showed it to him in her palm, the intricacy on the item bedazzling him not because it was beautiful. It was painfully similar.

"Your lady friend has got good taste," the assistant began, "this is one of the finest piece of silver lighters we have in the shop."

Slender and strong, bright and polished, and intricately carved in the exact manner. There was no doubt Chris knew where he had seen this before, even if it had been ten years ago.

_Wesker's lighter. _

Yet before he could even do something about it, not sure what he wanted to do in the first place at all, he helplessly watched the lady hand the lighter to the cashier and withdrew money from her purse. The sales assistant carefully kept the merchandise in a box before he placed it in a paper bag, placing the carrier in the lady's hand who looked pleased with her purchase. And if the occurrence didn't spot his curiosity, the look she threw at Chris after she received the package certainly did. The smile in her eyes was there he was sure, yet it wasn't one that was at peace with her delight.

It curled in deviousness.

The same kind of smirk in Wesker's eyes his sunglasses always shielded.

As black as the color of the night sky after they left the shopping mall.

Once they went back to his vehicle after a quick bite at a snack shop, Chris was quick to punch the accelerator as soon as she buckled up. He wanted to ask her things, but the language barrier stopped him. Yet somehow he believed she knew what he was talking about the whole time. Then his mind whirled, and it couldn't stop thinking about the things Wesker might be thinking again.

Chris didn't want to be left trailing behind the villain again. Failure to figure out his thoughts was the reason that took him ten years to finally seize him in Africa. He returned Wesker to ground zero he believed, they were now on the same level. And since Wesker was now affirmed alive, Chris wanted to be the first person there to stop him.

Or maybe he had just another reason to see the man.

Aside that it was almost time for Chris to send his guest back to the airport. As he stopped at the interjunction before the freeway, the lady suddenly took her cell phone out and showed him a picture.

"You want to go to this place?" He gestured to the picture and then to his steering wheel. She nodded once.

The hell yes Chris knew where she wanted to go. In fact, the question in his mind would be why the hell would she even know about a place like that?

And since the place was just another fifteen minutes drive away, he was there in a jiffy. He parked his vehicle in the garage opposite the destination before they went across the street. Yeah, there was no doubt about it. Why was he at the bakery across his own apartment at this hour?

She stepped into the bakery confidently without her host, looking around the French shop that was nearly closed for the night. Chris followed behind swiftly, entering the shop to find the usual Ms. Dupont out of sight. Or rather, there was no one at the shop front at all and that worried Chris a little.

"Ms. Dupont?" Chris called once, hoping someone would come out of the kitchen to address them. Unfortunately, there was no response.

But there was his guest. After backfacing him for the longest time, she turned around and looked at him in the eye. Chris was startled at her intensity, but it didn't last long when she reached for her Niqāb and pulled the veil off her face. Then subsequently, she removed the hood off her head to reveal the cherry blonde hair, something that complimented those very French green eyes and the freckles on her cheeks. Chris grimaced.

What the fuck was all this?

"_Bonsoir_, Chris."

If she didn't give him a good reason for all this, she could jolly well be the first civilian woman he'd put his hands on. Shurah would be second on the list, considering the fact that this woman was the one who sent him to pick her up. Did that mean she was part of the plot as well? _Oh fuck yes she is_, Chris swore.

"What the fuck is this, Dupont?" Chris tried to contain his anger. Imagine if you were the one taken on a ride like a moron, picture the exact same amount of emotions you would have on Chris. That was the amount of anger sitting inside him, enough to make him cut the formalities.

Taking the package out of her purse, she walked forth and pushed it into Chris' hands.

Grinning, she answered, "All the answers you need are in your apartment."

Chris wanted to ask more, but something else spurred in him and it made him walk out the door. He didn't even persist his interrogation he planned on the young Colette Dupont and just left. She said the answers were back at home. What could those answers possibly be? They'd better be enough to answer every single damn thing he had in his mind otherwise he might consider unleashing his anger on the woman instead.

Then there was Wesker's lighter in his hand.

_It couldn't be… could it?_

Dragging his feet up the stairs, Chris rearranged the timeline in his mind. First it was the dismissal from the B.S.A.A.. He wasn't given a proper reason, not one he was willing to take it down at least. Then he started the journal under Claire's recommendation, whom he now couldn't be too sure if it was his sister's at all. It could very well be Jill's. He knew he didn't say a single word about his argument with the organization to his little baby sister, so for her to suggest something to calm his mind was baffling. She was the last person he wanted to doubt and he still didn't want to. Then there was the anonymous guy who appeared at his cyber journal. Someone who knew him as well as his ex-captain did. Yet the ex-captain was supposedly dead then. It was impossible. Not until Paris happened. He met Yurkov's sister, Sashurah. This woman hit on him behind his brother's back, despite knowing the kind of relationship he was having with her brother. And she was inquisitively smart and devious. Chris had a hunch that he couldn't trust her in spite the physical attraction they might have had. But he wasn't going to tell Yurkov that, it would probably devastate the man. Then the masquerade. He kissed a stranger. A stranger with glowing red eyes. A man who left his initials as _Mr. A., W._, something similar to the initials left on his journal by the same anonymous man. He called this man Wesker after hiding his painful longings for the silent lonely nights. This man in return called him Mr. Red, called him _Chris_.

And today. He was sent by the woman he told himself he couldn't trust to play host for her guest, who turned out to be a big fat decoy, by a woman who worked across his street. Amidst the charade he found himself in, he discovered Wesker still lived. Chris wanted to know how far back he was withheld from this intel and why he was only told now. He needed to know how far behind he was again this time.

He knew this bakery since the first day he moved into this apartment. The French girl had been working there since the first time he set foot into the shop. How long was she watching him this entire time? How long had she been in cahoots with Shurah? What about Yurkov? Was he… a decoy to distract him as well?

But distract him from what?

He clearly made his own decision to come to Moldova on his own. Nobody knew where he was going. He was off the grid, unless the B.S.A.A. was still monitoring him from base. And unless they did, no one could've possibly tapped his locations. Cyber hacking through his journal? Seemingly possible unless someone found out he had the journal first. And how does one search the vast network to find one measly little space he created for himself? Unless Claire was under Jill's orders to convince him to start one while the B.S.A.A. used their resources to track his network address, which wouldn't take long with their expert personnel…

…_which could also possibly be infiltrated under radar by other hands outside._

Chris was no network expert himself. He could surmount to basic hacking but that was generally mission-related, which meant specifically device-hacking. Decrypting messages or hacking into highly-secured databases weren't his forte. But there were others that could. And what he had just conjured could have easily happened under the hands of these professionals.

Though, why would anybody bother so much just to find him?

He pushed his key into the door knob.

_All the answers you need are in your apartment._

* * *

Well well, certainly things are finally heated up.


	7. Scotch in the Light

**Disclaimer: I don't own Capcom or Resident Evil.**

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_I think this is the thousandth time you guys have heard me say sorry but it doesn't mean I shouldn't say it. So... sorry for taking this long again! I had some difficulty thinking about how I wanted this to go about, especially since this story is coming to its end and well.. much needs to be explained in my own defense. I have to admit it is hard coming up with a decent explanation for all of this, and well.. to do it in the tyrant's light for the readers to read as naturally as it is was nearly impossible. But somewhere somehow, I found courage to write all of this out, and I hope this isn't as disappointing as you all have been looking forward to. I must admit I wish I could do better, but this is after much decision before I've come to terms with it. Narrating the lines with yourself as two parties can be really painful, it's like slapping your own face then comforting it with the same hand that brutalized it._

_Well then enough of my ramblings! We're coming to the end of this tiny story I've enjoyed writing thus far! The reviews and support has been lovely as always, thank you for your time. Please enjoy!_

* * *

The apartment was as still as he left it. No signs of life or light, just complete stillness. But that was immediately interrupted as Chris looked around it, squaring every inch of detail and there it was, a tiny bump protruded from the usual silhouette of his couch, seemingly the sharp edge of a man's shoulder in particular. Irregardless, he stepped in, a hand quietly pulling the door shut behind him for he then stood before the anomaly. The quiet atmosphere reminded him of the empty love nest he once entered, particularly when he just had a major quarrel with the person he lived with then. What you would call the silent treatment, the silent murder perhaps.

"That took you rather long enough. May I have the flame?"

There were no more tricks left. The truth was as it seemed, just as Chris guessed. But how would be a question he would've to ask later because now, more importantly, was why? Why was he here?

Why show up after months after Chris had already begun to come to terms with the death of someone he killed?

Yet as if instinctive, moving forward was the ex-BSAA agent for he handed the package over like a good little puppy, keeping his anxiety to himself as the intruder received it from his hand. And immediate as he would, he unwrapped the package and pulled the lighter out, pressing the starter down and kissing the flame. Chris watched the tiny flame lit up the alabaster skin in the darkness for a split second before it all went out again. He knew he was so done with this game, he knew he wanted to quit it for real.

"What do you want with me, Wesker?"

"I believe the real question you want to ask is 'Why are you still alive, Wesker?', isn't it?"

And that too of course, but Chris wasn't going to let him have his way. "No, I'm done chasing flowers. I just want to know what you want with me. You don't just show up months after Kijuju without a reason."

Wesker smirked, pulling the cigarette away from his lips, "Finally growing up I see."

Chris wanted to laugh at the mockery, "You didn't exactly give me a choice."

"Indeed I have not. So, tell me Chris, what do you think I want with you?"

There he goes. The Wesker game. The ex-captain had always been fond of making Chris guess his intentions, listening to him making all those assumptions to have him know how wrong he was in the very end. Intention? The younger male had believed that was Wesker's way of showing how domineering he was in their relationship since he was a spot on every time Wesker had to make an assumption out of him. But he let him use this to feed on his ego. Chris just wanted Wesker to be happy with him then, he didn't matter even if it cost him a major price for his dignity. They were happy then, Chris would like to think, and even if he didn't know a lot about his ex-captain during those days, he realized the lesser he knew then, the more blissful he actually was with him.

But he couldn't stay ignorant that way. Least, he knew what Wesker wanted wasn't someone who was going to stay as his pet forever.

Otherwise, the blonde wouldn't be sitting here right before him after all the things Chris had done to him.

"Spare me the guessing game and just tell me." The teacher now sighed, walking over to his couch to flip the floor lamp beside Wesker on. "The fact that you're here means you already know everything."

A deep smirk escaped Wesker's throat, "Are you sure I'm speaking to the Chris Redfield I've once known here? He's certainly never been this patient with me before. In fact, he should've strike the moment he saw me in his couch."

He was right. Chris knew he was. If he were the man he used to be, he wouldn't hesitate a moment to take the blonde down. So where did he go? Why wasn't Chris even reacting to this? Could it have been the ball? The masquerade? No, it didn't feel like it was responsible for his change. So how did it started? This change that Wesker talked about, how did it happen?

_Oh…_ yes, how could he have forgotten just mere months since it happened?

"He would've strike at you if he had a reason to. Not anymore last recalled."

A new change of pace as Wesker perceived what Chris was offering him, he personally had never seen his ex-subordinate as least concerned as this. "I'm quite sure even that couldn't have stopped him from doing what he wanted. My pointsman was rather stubborn in his own way."

Now it was Chris' turn to laugh, "Indeed, he was stubborn. And reckless. And often called a useless wreck."

"I believe the exact words were _'your selfish mannerism is going to cost the lives of your teammates if you don't stay in your place'_ if I may correct you."

It might be a hint of being touched Chris felt. Wesker remembered. Trivialities such as this that he never once thought the blonde would remember now brought to surface even after a decade long. But no, said his stubborn side, he's a man full with tricks up his sleeves, he knows your weakness. He'll exploit them and unclothe you. You'll be vulnerable again. You'll give again. And then, you know what he'll do.

He'd leave you again.

"What are you trying to say here? That you're upset I'm not doing what I am supposed to do? What do you want with me?" And then it struck him, "I don't even understand why you're still alive here or on your way to get married in Paris."

That made Wesker smirk, like a sign that he had been waiting for Chris to pop the question any time soon. Then he watched Chris trot into the kitchen, whisking past him, before coming out with a bottle of scotch and two glasses, settling in a seat adjacent to his. Perhaps Chris had really changed, so much that the plan had already changed on its own as well. But even so, the blonde was always a step ahead, as hard as he tried, and he knew the odds were in his favor.

Because some things never change.

"I thought you didn't like scotch," Wesker asked.

"Well clearly my mind doesn't agree with my mouth or my hands," retorted he'd shown as he poured the drink in both glasses. "A toast to the man who didn't die with two rocket launchers."

Intended or not, the blonde deflected the goodwill, "You can do better than this, Christopher. Questions, answers, aren't those what you always sought after? Yet here you are, sharing a toast with me like this was what you had already known. Don't get me wrong, it is rather an interesting sight to see you let your guard down around me, but if I may say—"

"Then say it! Say why you're here!" Chris slammed the shot glass back onto the table after he knocked the first one down, "I don't wanna be led around by you again! I'm tired of your bullshit, Wesker. I don't wanna chase for answers that you're just simply waiting for me to ask before you give. Why can't you for once… just tell me anything willingly?"

_There you are_, the smirk buried inside grew as Wesker took his time with his shot. Nostalgia shot him right up like a bolt of energy, observing the brunette huffing and gritting his teeth the same way every time he chastised him back in STARS. Chasing flowers like he said, every single time.

"I'm pretty sure you've misread that one somewhere back then."

Chris tried searching for the gloat in his voice but there wasn't any. He didn't want to believe what the blonde had said earnestly but he knew there was no way he had misread anything back then, not when he was the one who was giving endlessly. And Wesker. Wesker only took but not give.

"You mean what? Willingly? Lets be honest now, did you do anything willingly for me, Wesker?"

A soft sigh slipped his lip when he placed the glass onto the table, then gently leaning closer into the light so that Chris could actually catch a glimpse of said dead man for the first time since Kijuju. His heart raced, though he knew it shouldn't have, the familiar face brought back so many memories every time he saw it. But all he could do was to withhold them, diverting them elsewhere because they were painful to bear. It was always harsh reality for him to realize how naïve he had trusted his captain back in those days, and how stupid he was to not see what he could've have seen for a moment's ignorance to taste bliss.

But when Wesker looked at him this time, even if he was hiding behind those shades again, there was a different aura about him that Chris couldn't quite explain. It wasn't his usual domineering and manipulative essence present in the air, it was something far different. If he felt it right, he might even call it reserving.

Then it surprised him, the softness in those words Wesker chose was something lost over the last decade. It pierced into him.

"I wasn't coerced into a relationship with you last checked."

That left Chris speechless. And Wesker knew he did. The brunette wasn't expecting the blonde to use that as his comeback game, and he instantly felt like he's losing his turn. So that just left one thing to do, even if he had to force it on. Chris never went down without a fight.

"I— I think you're missing my point," chewing his lips, "that's a rather low move you pulled."

"I believe this is not the first time you've seen me done anything low."

Chris scoffed, "I'm glad you realized."

Leaning forward however, Wesker helped himself with the uncapped bottle of liquor as he poured another shot. There were more things to talk about other than what they were reminiscing. Perhaps the pointsman couldn't see his point, or maybe he just really didn't want to be another part of his games, it didn't matter. The blonde always got what he wanted, at the expense of everyone else he couldn't care less for. Whatever got the job done was the only thing that mattered.

Just like how he got Chris the job as his pointsman, though pinpointing where his interest came about would be rather difficult now.

"That probably wasn't the only thing I realized, unfortunately."

His brown eyes sourced for the appreciation the blonde shared for his drink, then a little ashamed when Chris found himself doing so. The question continuously looped in his mind. Why the fucking hell Wesker was here and not in Paris. What about the wedding and the marriage? Anytime would be a good time to pop the question but Chris couldn't make himself do so. It's like how it had always been whenever he saw the ex-captain. His mind went mush and illogical. And clearly, that was putting him at a disadvantage.

To better put it, it's like cupid drunk on the job—just shooting arrows all day everyday giving people nothing better than false hopes on a stick.

If Chris had known any better, Wesker most definitely didn't have a _tiny_ stick.

"What?" Chris could almost say he feels a little offended by that statement, "Like you think I didn't realize you were supposedly at your wedding now?" There he's done it.

Yet Wesker just chuckled at it, wickedly of course, "Is that jealousy, Christopher?"

"Over your dead body."

"This body died twice if I may remind you."

"Ha-ha, bloody ha, Wesker." And he continued to prove his point by folding his arms, "You're supposed to be in Paris."

"For this wedding of mine, you mean?" With Wesker's attempt at feigning it, Chris found it too hard to keep his cool.

"How did you even do it? How did you trick Yurkov to Paris so conveniently?"

Wesker smirked, "Certainly that wasn't my call. I couldn't have given two rats about someone who's been trying so hard to lay so much as a finger on you."

"Is that jealousy I smell, Wesker?" What a perfect timing to reuse the blonde's question.

"I assure you it's not sulphur you smell."

But the brunette wouldn't buy it. Suddenly, it wasn't as unbearable as he first felt it. They were just casually sitting in his living room—as wrong as that sounded—enjoying a drink like old times. But Chris knew he didn't want these old memories reliving, he knew how vulnerable he could be in face of them. And the scent of weakness would brush so quickly across Wesker's nose that it'd leave him helpless to defend himself yet again. This was how it had always been, how Chris fell prey to Wesker evidently.

And there could be no better time for him to realize he was shamelessly flirting back with the blonde like how they used to it before they made way to the bedroom.

_The bedroom must be out of bounds_, Chris reminded himself.

How did the idea of the bedroom come across his mind again? Oh right, flirting. So stop flirting already, Chris Redfield.

"Besides, what makes you think I need to do anything myself? Surely you remember I've always had very spectacular _assistants_."

Oh god, no. The brunette refused to believe.

"Sashurah." Chris said once, "I could've sworn she's like your evil twin sister."

"Even if she was, I could never spare her from what she's done. I know everything, Christopher." Wesker eyed dangerously at the ex-agent, "Even what you have been doing with the Russian chef."

The brunette stole his opportunity, "What I do with him is no longer any of your business."

"You can't be that naïve."

Almost cringing however, he erected stand, "This is not bioterrorism, Wesker. This is my life you're talking about. Last recalled, you gave us up for Umbrella. Don't make any excuses like this is for our future and shit, you did that for your sick pleasure of watching the world burn."

As the blonde cleaned the last drop in his glass, he clicked his tongue, hard, earning Chris' attention on him. Chris remembered this habit like a scar on his skin; the ex-captain only did that whenever he got frustrated over something. But what came after that was always subjective—subjective to his mood indefinitely.

It could be a fist raised to his face…

It could be a throw against the wall…

Or it could be like now, just… silent and still…?

The lack of impact made the brunette cringed. This surely wasn't what Chris had expected to see. Any action made would've been Wesker, but the absence of it was disturbing. Watching the blonde just sitting in his couch motionless was wrong. To be put bluntly, having the ex-captain sitting out of this retort he made put Chris on the jitters, because it would be almost touché to say he could be worried if there was something wrong. And that alone was wrong on all levels. The last thing he should be concerned was the welfare of a tyrant to his pathetic humane nature, as Wesker would put it himself. Still, it didn't discount the brunette from being bothered about it. He wanted to say something, a snide remark or even a sarcastic one, but he couldn't. Something in the atmosphere felt very… what's that word again, yes—wrong.

"Earth to Wesker. Anybody home?" So he tried to be as casual as he could, like how Wesker would have played it himself.

"Would you have preferred otherwise?"

Then the incoming question held him down. It's a little strange for regrets or what-ifs if Chris had known any better.

And it was almost accurate to say after chasing the tyrant down for a little over a decade, he knew this was absolutely and ridiculously strange.

"What?" He strained his ears.

Wesker asked, "Would you have preferred a different ending?"

"Like you getting married?" Chris scoffed at it again, now clearly putting himself in the light that he was very perturbed by it, "Definitely better than you putting viruses in canisters and shooting them in the air."

But just then, the blonde got up from his seat. "Fair enough." And he made way for the door to Chris' surprise.

Although, in pure honesty, Chris didn't know how quick he reacted to it because when he realized it, he was standing by the door with one hand pressing against it, and Wesker just standing right next to him watching him. Observing him would be a better way to phrase it. All the hard work he strived before had gone to waste in this split second, he was as vulnerable as he didn't want to be. He knew Wesker must be laughing at him, smirking all the more.

Chris wanted to hate himself for this. But he couldn't if it brought the blonde back before him again.

"Would you mind explaining yourself, Christopher?" Wesker chided, arms folding now.

"Don't," the brunette's voice shaky however, "Don't ever… appear in front of my face to disappear again."

Then he let his hand slide down from the door before he took a step back. This short episode worn him thin; dealing with the tyrant always left him exhausted. It was impossible to keep up with him, not unless he had the intelligence of above 180 perhaps. Chris groaned, now hating for the lack of intelligence that made him blurt what he just said. That was going to feed the blonde's ego in every aspect of it, like how Chris had been doing it for years.

"I did offer a chance to a different ending. You wanted me to get married."

"You are supposed to be in Paris now getting married aren't you! Why would anything I say make any difference!"

The escalated volume in his ex-pointsman's words made him grin hard, "Just how naïve can you get?"

His body trembled in the alluring voice, "I'm tired of guessing games."

"It doesn't take a genius to know there's no wedding. It was just a show to let the main actor show himself."

"And you're the main actor?" Chris scoffed.

"Still don't see the picture, I see." And this time, Wesker stepped away from the door back into the living room. He moved closer to the computer and tapped the desk twice. Chris moved towards the same area, the moonlight gently basking over his bare arms. If only Wesker stood into the light he wished, it had been so long since he'd seen that face, long since he had touched that skin.

But his curiosity broke his thoughts, "What do you mean?"

"This is your stage," his sultry voice spoke lowly, fingers tapping the keyboard, "And you're the reclusive actor who tried to hide from the eyes of the world, Christopher."

The simple statement astounded the brunette.

"And all I did was participate to draw you out of your shell."

"So you mean… all this was just a game to you?" Yet the discovery made Chris shudder, made him like a rat in a maze and Wesker was just watching him all along. Like an amusement, a toy… just something other than the human he hoped to be treated like one.

"For god's sakes, how much longer are you going to cheat yourself from truth?" And Wesker just clearly ran out of patience dealing with the adolescent he knew a decade ago.

"When have I taken you for a moment's folly? Do I look like someone who would give a damn for something that I genuinely have no interest for?"

What spurred Wesker to say these things was puzzling. But more importantly, what made Chris think the blonde was someone who took things lightly was even more unfathomable. He didn't want to think that Chris still didn't know what sort of a person he was after so long, even though it wouldn't have mattered because he knew the ex-pointsman wasn't someone who liked to give anything much thought. Wesker didn't think he needed to explain something as vague as this so vividly, but it seemed like Chris always managed to surprise him in ways he never thought possible either.

Perhaps, that was how the attraction started all along. No matter how long it has been.

Chris was a magician. He was always full of surprises.

"But why? Why would you bother go this far to find me? I never thought you cared. You…" The brunette found his voice weaker by the second, "You don't care."

"You wanted to be found. You left a code that's simple as a three-year-old's riddle."

That humiliation stung him, "Wasn't expecting anyone but the BSAA to be interested in my whereabouts to begin."

"And why would they be interested finding you when they've basically expelled you?"

Now that brought about a new change of events. Evidently, as Chris feared, Wesker was involved in it. But that thought disappeared as fast as it came the moment he recalled rambling something like that on his journal once before. And if he must say, Mr. A began responding through that.

So how was Chris going to find evidence that Wesker had been involved in this?

He was going to find dirt in a vacuum if he must.

"So you do remember the contents of my journal." Chris scoffed, bemused even.

"It's not that difficult if you must ask. You write about mundane things, mundane is predictable."

Now he groaned, a little regretful challenging the god of sarcasm, "Fine. I know how boring I am to you."

Wesker chuckled unexpectedly, "Quite the opposite actually. You never fail to astound me."

And with that, the blonde made silent steps to the brunette's back, fingers gently sliding up the veins along Chris' rugged arms. Chris was taken aback by the sudden contact as he jerked back, the blade of his shoulders bumping against Wesker's chest. His nervousness escalated when the second contact came in place, bringing a smirk to the ex-captain's face while he continued the harassment. Almost detesting it, Chris shrugged his hands away, though not successful when Wesker curled his arm around his waist and turned him around. He was made to look at the blonde in the dark. Chris knew he wasn't ready for this. So he placed his hands against the ex-captain, trying to show his resistance that was failing significantly.

The slightest touch reminded him so much.

Even the distance made him remember the waltz they once shared long before, and the one fresh and recent weeks ago.

"Don't come any closer." Chris muttered, brink of pleading in fact.

"Empty threats won't work on me, Chris. Weren't you the one who asked me to stay?"

His advances threatened him, "I was told that answers are here. When are you going to give them to me?"

Wesker could see Chris inching away from him, a little pleased that he still had the same old effect on his ex-pointsman.

"When have you started asking any?"

Surprised at Wesker's generosity, the brunette successfully backed from the older man, mind determined to find out the answer he deserved to know. It didn't have to be planned, he knew he had always been a scatterbrain. There was so much he wanted to know, just trying to find a start for it was difficult.

"You can start by telling me why you are still alive."

"Fair enough," and the blonde slowly made his way back to the couch, pouring another shot of the scotch in his glass, making himself comfortable before he started. Chris followed suit. Call it a bad habit if you want, but Wesker deeply enjoyed making his purpose known to no one but Chris. Almost like his calling, and the brute was his one and only needed audience.

"I believe that was your call," he chaffed, "Clearly someone shot off his mark."

And Chris immediately protested, "Even if I had, Jill couldn't have."

"Indeed Ms Valentine couldn't have, unless you have missed it prior to her engagement and allowed the shockwave to blow me off along with my heavily mutilated body. I didn't come out of that lava pit unscathed if you must know, because it was too beyond my exceeding expectation of what Uroboros was capable of. I was an experiment that merely succeeded, and my body regenerated despite how much tissue and flesh I've lost."

It was an amazement to Chris that there were things that Wesker didn't have answers to. He had always thought the blonde planned everything that happened, and that even if he escaped death, there must be a foolproof that safeguarded his survival. But to him being blunt that he was just lucky, the brunette couldn't help but feel the difference a gentle one. One that could possibly bring him a little closer to his human side the younger man once loved.

"I thought you're Mr. Know-It-All."

"Even a scientist has his doubt, that's why he needs to experiment."

The brunette crossed his legs impatiently, "How long did you take to recover?"

"Two months."

"A little long for a God."

And that alerted a snarl, "Don't test me."

However there was nothing to hold the deep chuckle escaping from Chris, "Wouldn't dream of. How did you keep yourself under the radar?"

"The BSAA are only interested in high alerted activities. I was healing. I was silent. Shouldn't be that difficult to figure out how to keep myself unnoticed."

"How did you convince Sashurah Yurkov and Colette Dupont to work with you?"

Somehow when Wesker started laughing at his question, the brunette felt like something there was something faintly strange with the change of tone. Like as though the answer was going to make him laugh then cry about it, or perhaps too ridiculous to accept even. Chris had strong hunches when it came to nonsensical things, he was holding onto his gut tight this time.

"What's so funny?"

The blonde took a swig and emptied the neat, "Believe or not, those two were having an affair behind the married man's back. The husband was going to sue her for adultery and robbed her of her possession. I just merely offered her a chance to save herself in return for some favors."

Now that's a first Chris pried, "I didn't know you could be helpful."

"Listen carefully again, in return for some favors."

"Oh cut it out," the ex-pointsman wanted to laugh there and then, "There's no way you could've known if she could deliver what you wanted but you helped anyways. There's still some human left in you I guess…"

Groaning, "You're misinterpreting it. If she didn't deliver, I wouldn't have done anything."

These were the sort of times that Chris found himself often arguing with Wesker, trying to prove a point that the blonde wasn't as heartless as he claimed to be. Neither of them knew if it was faith or just simple trust that had Chris on a tight rope constantly believing in them, and it only seemed like he was going to do it all over again if he didn't stop himself. So he decided not to voice his opinions this round, just focusing on the questions he wanted answers to.

"Whatever. Then what did you ask them to do?"

"Set up an arrangement with a property dealer to make sure a particular apartment was selected, opposite a shop that could observe it."

Except no one knew Chris was coming to Moldova. It was completely impossible, not even Claire knew where he was going. Hell, she didn't even know about the journal.

"You're lying."

"Did you honestly think the BSAA was going to let you leave without putting some tracking on you?"

"Jill and Claire didn't know where I was going."

"Now why wouldn't they push you to find out… unless they already knew where you were, don't they?" Riddles spurred the brunette's anger faster.

Chris stared at the blonde, "Get to the point."

"Why not you use that brain of yours and think about it? What's the joy in me giving you all the answers? Some things don't have to be said to be discovered."

Almost like a clue to the riddle the ex-pointsman had to solve, Chris thought hard about it, He thought about his silent departure, his exit unseen and his stay unfound. There was no one else he communicated with other than Claire herself, and it was the short email messages they dropped occasionally whenever they were free to do so. He didn't breathe a word about his whereabouts and his routine, and neither did Claire raise any question that could possibly lead to an open discussion about it. Nothing made sense, he was really careful. Meticulous like he had never been before in fact. But Wesker made it a point to say his last line. That was his clue. So what exactly… didn't need to be said to be discovered?

And that was when Chris enlightened in shock, the one thing that didn't need to be conversed to be located.

"She wouldn't," the brunette muttered softly.

_Not bad, Chris. _Wesker smirked, "Oh but she could."

"She wouldn't do this to me." His hands gripped his pants tightly, shaking.

"A loving sister would do whatever she can to find her beloved brother. Even if it means going to the one person she least expected you to have a tiff with."

"She couldn't have gone to Jill."

"You blinded her with no choice, Chris. She was desperate for help and how was she supposed to know what happened between you and the BSAA. It's obvious she'd go to Jill."

"But Jill never confronted me."

"Why would she? All she needs is a leash around you. She doesn't need you back yet, she just needed to make sure you're within their radar when they really needed you."

As much as Chris hated to admit, what his ex-captain said was beginning to make sense the more he looked into it. It was very likely that the BSAA would do something like this, especially someone who's as smart as Jill was. No need to alert the crowd they once said, we'll wrap this up silently.

Although, this could be very much Wesker's plan to thwart the sour relationship he already had with the BSAA. And that put him to the next question.

"So how did you find out about the journal and they didn't?"

"I planned where you lived, Chris. It was difficult for me to find out any details about you with your identity and your residential address."

"Still doesn't explain anything."

"I tap data from your service provider here and back in the States. And if you used a false name, your address would clearly prove it. God knows you've never moved in years. Then I tap your internet proxy. I find out what you've been looking at. Tickets to Moldova. Online registration and application. I could've tiptoed into the BSAA network, but there's no need for such trouble since I had your personal information right from the start."

This was getting ridiculous if Chris had to say, "So you knew about Yurkov all along?"

"His fancy advances made his presence clearly known."

"And nobody takes what belongs to Albert Wesker, am I right?" Flabbergasted at this instance.

"Nobody takes anyone if they don't want to be taken."

Chris didn't want to hear anymore of this. He knew what games Wesker was playing and how terribly he might lose in them. But there was just one more thing he needed to know, and this could possibly determine his end.

"Was… w-was it you at the… masquerade?"

His grin was wicked, self-absorbent in fact, "Had you hope it was me?"

Chris felt his heart twitched, "Zip it and tell me."

"Aren't you going to ask me how did I know you were going to Paris?"

"If you can find out where my journal was in the vast internet, I don't see why finding out I was going to be in Paris would be any difficult. Especially since you had the advantage of having his sister working for you."

"Getting smarter by the minute, Christopher." Wesker smirked.

"So?"

"I thought my voice couldn't be any distinctive than it has always been."

"Why did you come back?"

The question took Wesker by surprise. It was a simple question but it felt like there were many implications to it. Did Chris want to know why he showed up at masquerade, or did he disgruntle at the fact that he wasn't dead but alive? Or had Chris simply wanted to know why he decided to make his appearance in the brunette's life after the peace beyond his death? Wesker had many approaches to it, and he knew Chris probably had meant all of them even though he might not have realized why he just asked had been this deep. But what was the smartest answer to all of this? Something that could possibly imply what he wanted to say, yet at the same time hit Chris hard.

Something that Chris wanted to hear perhaps.

"Because you've been too lonely without me."

And with that, Wesker got up from his seat as he slid past the lamp, bending over Chris seated on a chair staring at him. The soft glow resonated the same features; pale skin and thin lips, blonde hair pulled back prim and neat. Undeniable, Chris had missed this face far more than he thought he did. And those words echoing in his ears only made his hunger insatiable.

A palm cupping the right side of his face reminded the brunette the same warmth he felt in the night of the masquerade. It was the same hands, the same touch that lit his heart ablaze. Chris shut his eyes tight, wondering why he allowed himself to fall for such measly tricks from the blonde again.

Or perhaps, it was because the cold man pulled such affectionate trickery on him that made it irresistible to yearn for them.

"You jerk." Chris whimpered softly, straining the last of his defense against the ex-captain.

"As always, one you never ceased to stop loving."

Then he dived in quickly, latching his lips tightly against Chris crumbling that last wall of defense into dust. They kissed hard and needful, barely containing their desires for one another for they never stopped for a breath, just completely yearning for the other party to drown further. Chris reached for Wesker's glasses as he pulled them off him impatiently, the lost of the accessory giving him tighter contact as the sides of their noises brushed past, the rugged huffs slipping out whenever they had the chance to as they shifted. Wesker tasted divine Chris admitted, this was the taste he had longed for so long. Not Yurkov nor Sashurah could give him the same pleasure.

It has to be Wesker. It always was him.

Wesker felt Chris pulling him closer to him, mouths not leaving one another as he dipped forward while the younger male leaned back against the couch. He pushed him onto the couch before he clambered over him, watching the gentle glow highlighting the redness flushed across the brunette's face. Wesker knew he missed ravishing this lovely male, but he wasn't going to speak a word of it either.

He continued the kiss, slowing down the pace but keeping it intense. Chris was speechless to the touch, feeling the heat in his body growing for it rushed burning over his cheeks. He was almost too embarrassed to open his eyes to look at Wesker anymore, noticing how much of the desperate teenager had emerged from him.

"Any more questions before we call it even…?"

When Wesker detached himself from the wet kiss, Chris found himself dazed and blurry. He didn't know if he was the alcohol working its magic in his head or the charisma he was so unwilling to admit Wesker had, but he knew there was only one thing his mind wanted.

Or his heart needed.

"Are you going to leave me again?"

And that made Wesker chuckle.

"My beloved Christopher, the dead don't come back to die again."

* * *

Let's hear some cheers for the upcoming smut in the next chapter!


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